


European Physick

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Prescription-verse [3]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-30
Updated: 2006-10-06
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 114,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: The simple fact is that Jack and Jack wouldn't let us rest.  You'd think that 125 chapters would suffice, but apparently not.  The conversation went something like this:Jack Shaftoe:Lolling about in the Caribbean is all very well, Captain Sparrow, but you should see arealcity.  If you're up to it, of course.Jack Sparrow, raising an eyebrow:Ibegyour pardon?  I've seen more cities than you've had hot dinners, mate.Jack Shaftoe:Ever been to Paris?  Hamburg?  Salzburg?Jack Sparrow, somewhat shiftily:Yes. Batavia?  Veracruz?  Calcutta?Jack Shaftoe:Pfft.  Those aresettlements, not cities.  I'm talkingLondon.Jack Sparrow:London?  London's easy.  Viva Gloria could do London with her eyes closed.Jack Shaftoe:Bet the other one can't.  Wotsername, the colonial.Tessabeth:I can!  I bloody can too!Viva Gloria:Calm down darling, I'll send you maps.  Mr Shaftoe, don't be so wretched, and have a thought for your self-preservation: she's the mean one, remember.Jack Shaftoe, glowering:I'm hardly likely to forget, I'm short a digit thanks to her.Jack Sparrow, with a smirk:Ah, but she's given you some other things, darlin'.  They're not all bad, as girls go.Tessabeth:I'll give you lots of things, promise.  Both of you.Funthings.Viva Gloria, clapping her hands:So!  Are we on?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The simple fact is that Jack and Jack wouldn't let us rest. You'd think that 125 chapters would suffice, but apparently not. The conversation went something like this:
> 
>  **Jack Shaftoe:** Lolling about in the Caribbean is all very well, Captain Sparrow, but you should see a _real_ city. If you're up to it, of course.  
>  **Jack Sparrow, raising an eyebrow:** I _beg_ your pardon? I've seen more cities than you've had hot dinners, mate.  
>  **Jack Shaftoe:** Ever been to Paris? Hamburg? Salzburg?  
>  **Jack Sparrow, somewhat shiftily:** Yes. Batavia? Veracruz? Calcutta?  
>  **Jack Shaftoe:** Pfft. Those are _settlements_ , not cities. I'm talking _London_.  
>  **Jack Sparrow:** London? London's easy. Viva Gloria could do London with her eyes closed.  
>  **Jack Shaftoe:** Bet the other one can't. Wotsername, the colonial.  
>  **Tessabeth:** I can! I bloody can too!  
>  **Viva Gloria:** Calm down darling, I'll send you maps. Mr Shaftoe, don't be so wretched, and have a thought for your self-preservation: she's the mean one, remember.  
>  **Jack Shaftoe, glowering:** I'm hardly likely to forget, I'm short a digit thanks to her.  
>  **Jack Sparrow, with a smirk:** Ah, but she's given you some other things, darlin'. They're not all bad, as girls go.  
>  **Tessabeth:** I'll give you lots of things, promise. Both of you. _Fun_ things.  
>  **Viva Gloria, clapping her hands:** So! Are we on?

The cold—the sharpest, blackest, toothiest cold he’d ever known—seemed to’ve penetrated right through to the marrow of Jack Sparrow’s bones. It felt as though his flesh was supported by a skeleton of ice, and nothing around him seemed able to melt that glacial core. Not the warmth of the fire (“Jack, the edge of your coat is smoking, I suggest a very small strategic retreat,” said Enoch Root blandly) nor the steaming soup in his bowl; not even the welcome sight of Jack Shaftoe, twisting through the fuggy crowded room, somehow managing to carry no fewer than eight pottery mugs and a large jug of something that he swore would warm Jack up.

(There was only one thing that Jack knew of that reliably warmed him at the moment, and unfortunately it wasn’t available to him in a crowded bloody pub.)

Shaftoe ducked to avoid a particularly low rafter, and Bill took the jug from him and poured. It looked hot; smelled sweet and spicy. Shaftoe squirmed past Enoch Root and sat back down beside Jack, who surreptitiously wriggled closer. Not surreptitiously enough for Shaftoe, who threw him a laughing look.

“You can’t still be cold. Here, get this inside you.”

Jack needed no more than a cocked eyebrow and a moment’s eye contact to make a silent comment about what he’d _really_ like to get inside him, and Jack Shaftoe ducked his head and smirked, though he flushed a little.

“You know what’d warm you properly? Getting off your arse and walking. I can’t fucking believe we’re this close to London and waiting on a bloody _coach_.”

“We ain’t all vagabonds, Mr Shaftoe.”

“Oh, come _on_ ; if you can march through the Guyanan bloody jungles, I’m sure you could manage thirty mile on a good English road.”

“I’m merely thinking of the comfort of our companions,” said Jack with shameless mendacity, and he threw a sympathetic look across the table at Will and Djagdao, whose skin had taken on a grey taint in this vicious foreign climate and who were swathed in so many scarves, hats, and layered coats that they made Jack look positively under-dressed in comparison.

“I do not wish to walk,” said Will, rather sullenly. He didn’t wish to do much, it seemed, apart from curl up in the warm nook behind the galley that he’d commandeered for himself and Jamie Martingale; it was only Martingale’s repeated urging (Jack’d say nagging, but that was such a _womanish_ word) that’d persuaded him to come and take advantage of this chance to see the greatest city in the known world.

Their timing, though, wasn’t the best. Coldest winter anyone could remember, they said; two months back, the damn sea’d been frozen, the whole rivermouth, wide as it was. Jack could believe it. It’d been many, many years since he’d set foot in this country, and he still couldn’t quite conceive how so many people managed to survive in such horrible damn’d conditions. He longed for the sun, stroking his skin, and for a gentle wind that cooled you down instead of freezing you to the very innards.

Foolishly, he’d admitted as much to Jack Shaftoe, and now he was paying the price in a constant stream of taunts and jests. Which meant, of course, that he had to put on a brave face and pretend that he wasn’t suff’ring at all. When the men complained, he’d rolled his eyes and likened them to pampered little girls. When Joe Henry lost the feeling in his fingers and fell out of the ratlines, knocking himself out on the ice-rimed deck, Jack’d told him to borrow some gloves and harden up. When the coldest, bitterest hours of the night came round, Jack himself had to be the one out there, showing that it could be borne.

“Walking warms the blood,” Shaftoe was insisting to Will. “Why, when it gets truly cold, ‘tis the best thing to do; I remember in the winter of ’79, I crossed France in little more’n a week. Too cold to stop, it was, I’d just walk most of the night. With a firebrand to scare away the wolves.”

“Well, there’s an attractive proposition,” said Jack, rolling his eyes. “Why would we want to travel in comfort, in the warmth of a coach, when we could be stamping through the bloody snow, scaring off wild beasts in the dark?”

“Be a damn sight cheaper,” said Shaftoe for the hundredth time, though rather indistinctly through a mouthful of bread.

“Who gives a shit? May I remind you that we’re currently rolling it in?” Jack snapped.

“Got better things to do wi’ my money, in London Town,” said Shaftoe, with a crooked grin. Lower, half under his breath, he added: “Oh, I’ve some sights to show you, Jack Sparrow.”

Jack licked his lips and spent a brief and pleasant moment reflecting on sights that Jack Shaftoe’d already shown him, and wondered whether London Town had any chance in the world of bettering them. Could any sight be as glorious as the sight of Jack Shaftoe, bare and bold and gold on a deserted Caribbean beach? Or Jack Shaftoe, wind-tangled and bright-eyed and full of laughing glee beside Jack at the helm of the _Pearl_ … More lately, in the short cold days of these last few weeks, rounding the coast of England, Jack Shaftoe’s face all pinked with cold and eyes all icy-blue to match those rare patches of sky, his grin growing ever wider and merrier as they drew closer to his old haunts?

Or, better still than all those: the sight of Jack Shaftoe, beckoning Jack into the messy cocoon of their bed and promising he’d ways to warm him. Jack Shaftoe delivering on his promises, over and over, so fiery and fierce that afterwards Jack’d feel like Shaftoe’d planted the sun inside him. Jack Shaftoe hanging above him, red mouth open and gaspy, staring at Jack as though he were the meaning of the world.

Bill Turner had the oblivious temerity to interrupt this exceptionally pleasurable reverie. “Are you certain, Jack? That you don’t mind my coming? That you’re happy leaving the ship with West?”

As it happened, Jack wasn’t overly enthused about it. But there was so much ice on the river still, the spring thaw barely begun, that they’d not been able to proceed past Rochester. The town’s port was swollen with other vessels suffering the same, her taverns full of sailors and merchants making their laden way overland into London; so their early plan, of putting in at Deptford Creek, where Bill’s Kitty and their little son lived, had come to naught. And Jack hadn’t the heart to deny Bill his family comforts, not after so long. ‘T’wouldn’t be right. They’d drop him there. And Jack should probably go and pay his respects to Kitty, too, though it wasn’t a prospect he relished.

“Ty West’ll be fine,” Jack said, “so stop going on about it, mate.”

“He can send for me, if he needs me, I can be back in a day.”

“Bill, nothing’s going to happen,” Shaftoe said. “Me an’ Jack an’ Enoch’ll go sell our cure, make a load of money; these boys here’ll back us up if need be, an’ get to experience a bit of good old English hospitality; an’ we’ll be back to get you in a week or so, no worries.”

“Finish up, gentlemen,” Enoch murmured. “The coachman, over there, looks about set to go.”

Jack drained his toddy in a gulp, and Will’s too, since the fellow’d pulled such a face at it. No sense in wasting warmth, not to mention alcohol.

“Don’t go without me, now,” Jack said, and stood, pulling his coat tighter about him. “Back in a flash.”

In the alleyway behind the tavern it was gloomy, even though the sun was at its zenith. The snow was chill, dirty slush under his boots. There was, though, one thing to be said for this bloody weather; latrines were a lot less foul, frozen. Behind the rickety fence, he fumbled through layers of clothing, and the cold nipped and bit at his fingers, his nose, at every skerrick of exposed skin. He cursed under his breath. Filthy bloody country.

“What’s the matter, mate? Shrunk up too small, has it? Can’t find it? Want a hand?”

Strong arms came round him, hands still warm from the tavern delved under his clothes. Jack Shaftoe pressed against Jack’s back, his breath sending white clouds over Jack’s shoulder as he bent and pressed his lips to Jack’s jaw.

Jack grinned and squirmed. “Think it’s getting bigger as we speak. D’you mind? I’ve got a job to do here.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Shaftoe’s hands covered Jack’s as he freed his yard; his crooked eye-tooth scraped against Jack’s cheekbone, his head tilted at a wild angle to fit under the brim of Jack’s hat, pulled low. Jack pissed into the snow, steam rising, his cock tingling and swelling as he did it, and Shaftoe hummed and tilted into him as though his were doing the same. Not that Jack could tell, with all those layers between ‘em.

“Where sh’ll we stay tonight, then?” Jack muttered. “Got somewhere in mind, have you?”

“Plenty of places; depends how far we get, what sort of time the damn _coach_ can make in this weather,” Shaftoe said. “But this I promise you, Jack; you an’ I’ll have a room of our own, an’ it’ll have a fire of its own; an’ between us I’d lay we’ll manage to make enough heat to see us through the night.”

Jack shook off, once, twice. The gelid air pinched its way across his belly, and Jack Shaftoe’s hands followed it, casting it out. The bloody coach journey couldn’t be over with fast enough as far as Jack was concerned.

“Cap’n?”

It was Burton, calling from the back door of the tavern.

“Aye, coming,” Jack called back, and he tucked himself away, and said, “I’ll hold you to that promise, Mr Shaftoe.”

Jack Shaftoe’s smile was near as warm as his hands had been, and not kissing him was a deliciously challenging proposition. “I’ll deliver on’t,” he assured Jack, and added with a wink, “Tenfold.”

* * *

Bundled under a blanket, curled into one another for warmth, Martingale and Will were asleep before a mile had passed. Beside them, John Burton didn’t seem to feel the cold at all; Jack Shaftoe doubted that Djagdao could say the same, but if he did he wouldn’t let Burton see it. The Indian peered out the window of the coach, wiping the condensation from the glass every few minutes, asking a constant stream of guttural, muttered questions and frequently looking mystified by Burton’s answers. At least he was curious; Will seemed so bemused by everything, as though it were all too new and too much and he could ‘compass nothing except Martingale.

On the seat facing forward, Jack was crushed close against Sparrow, who sat with his rag-wrapped hands jammed into his armpits, his head tilted back against the seat and his hat pulled down over his face as though he were sleeping. (Jack knew better. He’d caught Sparrow doing this before—blowing his warm breath into the crown of his hat to heat his face.) Enoch read a book. Turner stared out the other window, straight-backed, quiet as the grave, as though he should do nothing to disrupt this journey that was bringing him home to his wife and his boy.

A long journey, it’d been; many months and many miles since Jack’d left London in Enoch Root’s company. He was returning, now, a different man in so many ways. A cured man. A far richer man, and not just for the gold in his pockets neither. A man who wasn’t alone.

These first few days in England had been a laugh, and he’d no doubt that London would be ten times as amusing. Jack was looking forward to watching those poor bloody Indians see a city for the first time, its noise and rush and size and beauty and ugliness. And to watching Jack Sparrow drinking it in; Sparrow’d been vague about the last time he’d been in England, but Jack was certain he’d been no more than a sprat, whenever it was.

Even more, he was looking forward to watching London watch them back. It was like being part of a circus troupe, walking English streets with Jack Sparrow and his Indians. Everyone they passed stopped and stared; mothers picked up their children, little boys followed them, gawping and giggling and astonished. Grown men couldn’t avert their eyes, and it wasn’t just the natives that excited their curiosity; here in the grey cold, Jack Sparrow was like some exotic bird of paradise, never mind that he was all wrapped and swaddled against the cold. Sparrow did it his own inimitable way. Gold still glinted in his mouth, dangled from his ears and in his hair; peeping from under his heavy greatcoat were brilliant shards of colour; wound about his neck was the glossy dark fur of some unfortunate New World creature; he didn’t stop blacking his eyes, never mind the pallid and unthreatening northern sun.

Lord alone knew what Jack’s old mates would think of him. One way or another, it wouldn’t be boring, that much Jack could guarantee.

The day was dimming already, swirls of snow coming down. The coach shuddered over frozen ruts, and Jack wished again that he were walking, never mind the inclemency of the weather; at least his spine would survive the experience intact.

He wished it even harder when the coach swayed, and the horses whinnied in panic, and out of the gloaming a hoarse muffled voice cried, “Stand, sir: stand, and then by God you’ll deliver!”

Enoch Root heaved a huge sigh; Jack Sparrow’s hat flew forward as the coach stopped abruptly (Jack spared a moment to admire the speed with which the pirate’s hand shot out and caught it), and Martingale started awake, said confusedly, “Wha’?”

“ _Fucking_ coaches,” said Jack feelingly, and pulled out his pistol.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack Sparrow was incensed. Incensed at the vicious climate, and the permeating gloom, of this vile northern extreme; at the insufferable discomfort of their conveyance, which nonetheless he'd suffered as a point of principle, after all those superior remarks from Mr Jack Shaftoe; at the cramped conditions prevailing therein, with eight of 'em wedged together like salt fish in a barrel; and most especially at the sudden lack of warmth on his left flank, as Shaftoe -- rolling his eyes as if to say "I told you so," a sentiment that dismayed Jack with its predictability -- lurched forward out of his seat, bracing himself against the low ceiling of the coach.

"What the --"

Shaftoe shushed him. "Leave 'im to me," he muttered, low, against the raised voices outside. "Done this before, I have."

"Hello? Pirate?" Jack reminded him indignantly.

" _Land_ -pirate, mate," said Shaftoe smugly. "Gi's that --" And without further civility his hand was in Jack's pocket: always a promising beginning, but before Jack could call to mind happier interferences, the hand drew back, with Jack's new watch (must get the previous owner's initials filed away) dangling from its gloved fingers. 

"Bait," said Shaftoe, flashing a grin in the dim light. "Won't be a minute." Shoving his pistol into the deep pocket of his coat, he wrenched open the coach door -- the rest of 'em cringed at the miniature whirlwind of blizzard thus admitted -- and sprang out into the night.

"Sir," came his voice from outside, "I most humbly beg your mercy. We're but poor travellers --"

"Poor?" exclaimed another voice, rather hoarse. "Poor? Why, sir, that watch in your hand --"

"My last memento of a dear departed friend," said Shaftoe, sounding choked. "We're mariners, sir, lately returned to these shores after frightful trials."

Martingale snickered, and Jack kicked him, none too gently. Burton, good man, had his pistol in his lap, ready for action as soon as Shaftoe'd finished arsing around. Jack held up his hand: wait.

"Aye," Shaftoe was saying, "and poor old Gill -- look, you c'n see 'is name, here --"

Then a dull thudding noise, and a howl, and the quick crunch of footsteps: the sound of a pistol being cocked, and Jack Shaftoe's voice ringing out bold and clear. "Reckon it's _your_ turn to stand and deliver, mate -- an' if I may point out a few deficiencies in your approach to the business, while I'm here?"

Jack threw back his head and crowed. Oh, glorious, bellicose, blood-quickening Jack Shaftoe! Enough to warm any man's heart, even in this filthy weather: enough, indeed, to bring warmth to certain _other_ organs, in Jack's case. Jack grinned round at this little distillation of his crew -- and Enoch of course, couldn't rightly call Enoch crew -- daring them to deny Shaftoe's recklessness, his style, his --

But Shaftoe's erstwhile opponent was uncowed. "Well, stab me!" he exclaimed. (Martingale and Burton looked at one another, comically aghast: this fellow's _asking_ for it, their expressions seemed to say: crazy English bastard, eh?) "Stab me if it ain't young Shaftoe, back from furrin parts!"

* * *

"Bloody hell!" said Jack Shaftoe, finally getting a fair look at the highwayman's face as the fellow clawed off his layered mufflers, scarves and other adornments. Not a tenth of Jack Sparrow's style, but Jack couldn't blame him for wanting to stay warm, not to mention unrecognisable, in this unspringly weather. What with the snowy, greenish dusk -- hardly illumined by the glimmer from the carriage-lanthorn -- and the lines of age and hard use on the man's countenance (not to mention the blood trickling darkly from his nose, which had impacted with Jack's fist a moment before) it was a wonder _Jack_ recognised him, though he made it his business to remember a face. But he knew this man, all right: had marched beside him all over France and Flanders and a dozen other mud-clogged pays; had thrashed him at cards and stolen his silver, and learnt a few things about life on the road, besides. "Swift Nick!"

"Aye," said the other, looking askance at the pistol in Jack's hand. Jack let the barrel drop, though he was not so foolish as to cast the weapon away. 

"They ain't hung you, then," he said, beaming. "Christ, mate, I reckoned you'd be rattling at the crossroads by now!"

"They'd have to catch me first," said Nick. He peered over Jack's shoulder. "Friends of yours, are they? Or shall we split the proceeds?"

Jack turned round. There, clambering out of the coach, came Jack Sparrow, hat clapped to his head, a miscellany of bright silks and rich furs streaming from his person, the glimmer of gold brittly bright around him in the cold dark air. There was a pistol in his hand, and he was scowling as he stalked towards the two of them.

Jack swung back just in time to catch the highwayman as he reached down into the snowy mud for the pistol that Jack'd lately knocked out of his hand. "Leave it, Nick," he snapped. "This is ..."

Jack had noted before that time, in the company of Jack Sparrow, was a curiously imprecise and elastic thing. He could live an eternity in a minute, the two of them pressed close as any two could be, bodies penetrating one another, gazes locked, hearts ablaze with the same fire. By the same token -- or rather its reverse -- aeons might rush past like mayfly lives, a voyage from New World to Old compacted into a handful of moments strung on silk: Sparrow and himself aloft in the crow's-nest under a yellow moon; dicing for forfeits in the privacy of their cabin, near-naked and Jack throwing six after six; the rush of the _Black Pearl_ over the blue water, white crested bow-wave in her teeth, with a high green mountain rising out of the sea off to starboard; Jack Sparrow sucking in cold air as the tide carried them up the Medway on a clear, crisp morning.

And so this moment, this check, this hitch in his words held a whole other reality: a world in which he said, "This is Jack Sparrow, captain of the _Black Pearl_ , which as you'll surely know is the most fearsome, successful and libertarian pirate vessel on all the seven seas; this is Jack Sparrow, the finest man I've ever met, and he's all and everything to me, and I to him; this is Jack Sparrow, an' we've risked death for one another, not to mention monstrous sea-beasts and depraved Hispanics; this is Jack Sparrow, with whom I indulge in the most perverse and decadent sins of body and soul, and I swear to you, mate, there ain't anything sweeter in all the wide world."

But there was Nick, turning a cold glare on Sparrow: there was Sparrow, head tilted back and one nostril flared as he examined the highwayman: and there in the middle was Jack Shaftoe, saying rather gruffly, "Jack, this is John Nevison, a gentleman of the road, called Swift Nick; we were in the army together. Nick, this here's Ja-- _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, of the _Black Pearl_ , a, a ship."

"Perhaps you've heard of me?" enquired Sparrow, narrow-eyed in the dusk. 

Nevison shook his head.

* * *

Jack didn't care for this Nevison chap, not at all, and nor was he overimpressed by the Gravesend inn to which Nevison -- on the transparent pretext of it being near nightfall and their coachman having bottled out -- had escorted them. "He's a _highwayman,_ you know," he whispered in Shaftoe's ear. "He'll rob us of every last reale, see if he doesn't."

Shaftoe rolled his eyes, and beckoned for more ale. "Why should he?" he argued. "I told you, Jack: we go way back, him and me."

"Didn't stop him holding us up, did it?" said Jack darkly.

"He didn't know it was me," said Shaftoe. "And ain't he been fine company, since he found out who we were?"

He gestured across the inn. Nevison -- Swift Nick, Shaftoe'd called him; Jack had a sinking feeling that he was going to hear the tale of that nickname -- was standing at the bar, laughing, his arm around a girl in a blue dress; another pair of females, one in red and one in yellow, were making their way across to the nook where Jack and his mates sat. Jack could've told the strumpets they'd be wasting their time, but no doubt Mr Nevison would take it as ingratitude. They'd work it out soon enough, if they'd eyes in their heads to see Will's hands creeping beneath young Martingale's muddy coat-tails, or Jack himself pressed up against the infuriating (but undeniably incendiary) Mr Shaftoe.

Where the hell had Enoch got to? Perhaps _he_ could entertain the lasses.

"So, Jack," said Nevison, pulling up a stool at the end of the table and setting down a steaming tankard. 

"Hmm?" said Jack, just as Shaftoe said "Aye?"

"Beg your pardon," said Jack, with a smile of glittering insincerity. "Pray don't let me impede your reminiscences."

"Of course not," said Nevison, smirking. "I feel sure that Mr Shaftoe and I will have many happy tales to recount: but the winter nights are long, and there'll be time aplenty for that. Firstly, though, I wished to enquire -- if 'tis not too, too _delicate_ a matter -- as to your circumstances, Mr Shaftoe."

"My what?" said Shaftoe blankly. Beneath the table, his hand ground down against Jack's, halting it mid-exploration.

"Your pecuniary situation, Jack. Your wealth." Nevison looked around, slowly and carefully: at Bill, deep in conversation with the innkeeper; at Burton, who was apparently teaching Djagdao (with supreme irrelevance) how to count to ten in French; at Martingale and Will, who were huddled together in the corner, peering at a printed ballad-sheet pinned to the wall there. "Your wealth, and that of your company."

"If you're asking whether I'd sooner sleep in the stable than hire a room for the night," said Shaftoe cheerfully, "then I have to confess I've bespoken the latter." His palm flexed against the back of Jack's hand. "A room with a fire, for the love of God: I'd forgotten how fucking cold it can be, round here."

"Worse up north," said Nevison gloomily. "You know me, Jack: I'd sooner keep to my own country, Newark way."

"Right, and you never robbed anyone south of the Thames, is that right?" parried Shaftoe. The two of them laughed like idiots, and Jack set his teeth.

"Roads are empty, back home," said Nevison. "Nobody's travelling unless it's life or death; they're afraid they'll end up in a snowdrift, waiting to be melted out when the thaw comes. Hope you weren't thinking of heading north, Jack: it's bitter cold, past St Albans, and the trees coming down everywhere where the winter's snapped 'em."

"Charming country," put in Jack, bored already by this litany of complaint. "No, Mr ... Mr Nevison, was it not? We're for London. Assuming, of course, that it's still standing beneath the snow."

"London?" said Nevison, sipping at his mulled ale. "You'll be after old Bob, then."

"Bob?" said Jack, bemused: and, "Bob?" said Jack Shaftoe, aghast.

* * *

"Bob?" repeated Jack. "You mean the old bastard -- nay, I only meant it _literally_ , no need to take offence -- is back in England? I thought he'd got himself a cushy number, following old Churchill 'round Europe."

"Europe isn't enough for Churchill," said Nevison. "He was in Tangiers, you know. Hot, Tangiers."

"Tangiers?" said Jack, leaping at this opportunity to steer the conversation away from more personal matters. "That's in Barbary, ain't it? Never tell me _you_ were there!"

"Aye," said Nevison, grinning. "I bought my passage, fair and honest."

" _Bought_ it?" cried Jack, aghast.

"Aye: 'twas that or the short road to Hell," said Nevison. He flicked another glance at Jack Sparrow, and Jack felt Sparrow bristle at his side. He gave the pirate a warning nudge: bootlessly, as it turned out.

"So Bob Shaftoe's back in London, then," said Sparrow brightly. "That'll be nice, Jack: you can see your own dear brother again, eh? You'll have _so_ much to talk about."

Fuck! Jack set his teeth, and nodded, and smiled. Of course Sparrow knew about Bob: there'd been that night, with the rum, when he'd told the pirate all manner of unnecessarily personal anecdotes. Never expected him to _remember_ them: but then, Sparrow had a mind like a steel trap. He was leaning forward now, his black eyes alight with mischief, leaning away from Jack's touch.

Jack was keenly aware of Nevison's attention, picking away at Jack Shaftoe's new situation, his friends and his manner and his Pecuniary Situation, like a thief at a lock. Lord knew _Jack_ was not averse to gossip, but he did not care to be its subject. If there were to be stories about Jack Shaftoe, Jack'd be the sole source of 'em. And he really, really didn't fancy Bob hearing any tales at all from Swift Nick, with his sly glances and searching questions.

"That's right," said Jack. "Lots to talk about, him an' me. Where's Bob living now, eh, Nick? Still in Wapping?"

Nevison shrugged. "The last I heard, he was over in Limehouse. Though they do say Churchill's for the Continent again, once the roads are clear."

Jack seized on this diversion with relief, and within five minutes had steered Nevison to an account of John Churchill's campaigns -- military and otherwise. But then Nevison checked mid-sentence as Sparrow, at Jack's side, yawned silently and expansively, one bright eye fixed unblinking on the highwayman. 

"Well, Jack," he declared. "I'm for my bed. I s'pose you'll be up talking 'til dawn, with your ... friend, here."

Like a man rack'd, Jack felt himself torn two ways. Here was Swift Nick, too watchful by half and horribly loquacious, his keen eye fixing Jack like a poniard. And here was Jack Sparrow, his hand on Jack's thigh tracing idle curlicues like promises, and his black gaze reminding Jack of what _he'd_ vowed. _Enough heat to last us through the night._


	3. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Three

  


Cruel of him, really, to put poor Jack Shaftoe on the spot like that and make him choose. Clear as the words in an inky-smelling, new-printed book, Jack could see the warring urges flickering over Shaftoe’s face.

He wouldn’t’ve done it (well, _might_ not’ve) if this damn’d Nevison weren’t such a thorn. Jack could not say precisely what it was about the man that he’d taken an aversion to. He was, as Shaftoe said, reasonably good company (once they’d cleared up that little issue of him trying to rob them of everything they owned); and Jack Shaftoe—a shrewd enough judge of character, as far as Jack’d seen—certainly seemed to’ve had a long history with the fellow. Besides which, who was Jack to interfere in a reunion of old friends? They were on Shaftoe’s territory now, and Jack’d better get used to it.

But… but…

There was something in the way the highwayman looked at Jack. In the way he looked at Jack Shaftoe. In the way he looked at the space between the two of them, assessing, considering, _judging_. Worse, it was the way his sly looks were making Shaftoe react. Shifting so slightly away from Jack; stilling his hand beneath the table.

It couldn’t but remind Jack of the vast distance they’d travelled, from the days when Jack Shaftoe’d flinch from even an appreciative look, and curl his lip if Jack’s arm should brush against him. All very entertaining, the breaking down of those barriers, but Jack was damn’d if he was going to go back to that state of affairs. Not now. Not now that he and Shaftoe’d formed such a gleaming strong accord; not now that Jack’d seen, touched, the wonderful sunshine in Shaftoe’s soul.

Shaftoe turned away from his mate, so’s he could give Jack a wink all unseen; but all he said was, “Aye, I’ll stay a while. Got a lot to catch up on.”

Predictable enough. Jack stood, and held out a hand to Nevison. “’F I don’t see you again, fair roads to you.”

“An’ fair seas to you, Captain,” said Nevison, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He shook Jack’s hand perfunctorily. “Though I’m sure I’ll see you in the morning. Why, we could travel together, if it suits you.” He turned his gaze on Shaftoe. “ P’rhaps we could take the opportunity to combine our professional resources, eh Jack? For old times’ sake? Care to join me in—”

“No thank you,” said Jack smoothly, on Shaftoe’s behalf. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. Behind schedule and all that. Got held up by a highwayman, don’t you know.”

Shaftoe scowled up at him. “Night, Jack,” he said pointedly.

“Night,” said Jack, and was annoyed enough to call over his shoulder, “Don’t be too long, eh?”

*

There was a small silence, and then Swift Nick said, with a noncommittal air that set Jack’s teeth on edge, “Sharing a room, then, are you?”

Bloody Jack Sparrow. Jack shrugged. “Looks like I’m rooming with him tonight,” he said, as though it were the purest chance that he wasn’t spending the night in the company of Enoch Root, or one of the Indians. Beneath the table, the Imp hissed and growled at such disloyalty. But really, what did he expect? Jack had a reputation to protect.

“He’s… a character,” said Nick.

“Mmm,” said Jack, taking a long drink.

“Flamboyant, you might say. Don’t get many like that around here.”

“Mmm. No. So! Pickings been a bit slim then, have they?”

“A bit. He better watch himself, I’d say. You might be able to get away with that sort of crap”—Nick illustrated what sort of crap, with a brief flurry of gesticulations and widened eyes that gave an impressively compact but cruelly accurate impression of Jack Sparrow—“in the Indies; but your Englishman don’t take so kindly to’t.”

Jack fought down a bristle and reminded himself that, not so many months back, he himself had been of the exact same opinion. “Leave it,” he said, and slammed his hand down on the table somewhat more forcefully than he’d intended.

“Alright, no—Christ, Jack, what happened t’your hand?”

Jack tended to forget that he was a digit poorer than he had been when he left. He shrugged. “Fuckin’ Spaniards,” he said. He grinned, slyly, and tugged his bone-ended plait free of his queue. “Got me a memento, though.”

Nick laughed out loud. “Oh, fuck, it’s never!”

“’Fraid so.”

“That, Jack Shaftoe, is dis-bloody-gusting. You’re not a well man.”

“Not even my idea, as it happens. Jack Sparrow did it.”

He could’ve kicked himself for bringing Sparrow’s name up again. Nick’s lip curled a little, and he snorted. “Well, that don’t surprise me half as much as the fact that you _let_ him do’t.”

“Nick, for fuck’s sake, drop it. He ain’t your problem.”

“No: an’ you’d be wise not to let him become yours, Jack, neither.”

That was enough. Heavy in his belly, Jack could feel a swell of irritation, a shiny embarrassment, a shame that he’d thought was dead and gone, cremated in the hot Caribbean sunshine.

“ _Leave it_ , I said. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Anyway, if pickings are so slim here, you should try some fresh fields, mate. Plenty to be had in the New World.”

“Really?”

Relief at the change of subject made Jack reckless. “Really. You wouldn’t credit it. Ain’t easy, by any means, but I swear, there’s some riches to be had. Never been so flush in all my life.”

“’Zat so?” said Nick, looking Jack up and down as if to note that his outward appearance gave no such indication.

“Yes. It fucking is. See this?” And Jack pulled out his fatly full leather purse, dandling it low so’s not to advertise it to every patron in the bar. “Every man on that ship’s got the same, mate. Every last one.”

“Well, stab me.” Nick looked appropriately impressed. Jack, satisfied that he’d not only made his point but distracted his companion from the thorny subject of Jack Sparrow and his inclinations, pocketed his riches and settled back.

“’Mazing, ain’t it,” Nick murmured. “You so flush, Jack… an’ yet you’re _still_ sharing a room wi’ a fellow like that. Makes a man wonder.”

Too much. “A fellow like _what_?” Jack cried. “Jack Sparrow’s a fine captain, and a fierce fighter, I’ll have you know; why, that ship of his, it’s feared by every navy man in the West Indies. He’s sharp as a tack, an’—”

Nevison’s eyes were sparking with delight, as if Jack’d just divulged the most wonderfully salacious piece of gossip. Jack rolled his eyes and swallowed the rest of his diatribe. “He’s just not… not as, as odd as he looks,” he finished.

“An’ what about _them_? Are _they_ as odd as they look?” the highwayman asked, nodding over to Martingale and Will, on the settle in the corner; Jamie Martingale had one leg thrown over Will’s thighs, an arm about his shoulder, never mind that the Indian was the object of such great curiosity from the rest of the tavern’s customers. “No, _Guyana_!” Jack could hear Jamie saying, to a rough looking fellow. “In the New World!” In the familiar surroundings of an English pub, Will’s flat gold cheekbones, his long dark eyes, were bizarrely incongruous.

“They’re a bit odd,” Jack conceded.

“Fuckin’ sailors, eh?”

Jack’d had enough. Opportunities for reminiscences could be damned: this was too hard, watching his friend lay out all his old opinions in front of Jack and then poke him with them. “I’m off,” he said sharply, and drained his tankard. “Burton, you sorted for the night?”

Burton and Djagdao looked up, and Burton grinned and nodded. “Aye, we’re all staying over the stable, Jack. See you here in the morning?”

Jack raised his chin in agreement. “Night, then, Nick; good to catch up wi’ you, friend.” Annoying though the evening’d been, that wasn’t Nick’s fault. He wasn’t the one who’d undergone a sea-change.

Swift Nick looked up, sideways. If he was taken aback by Jack’s precipitate urge to leave, he wasn’t showing it. “And you, Jack. But… are you sure you don’t want to join me for a while? We’re a good team, you an’ I.”

Poor fellow’d no idea what a real team could be, Jack thought. “Nah,” he said, with a fair show of regret. “Other fish to fry, me.”

He hoped they’d still be awake.

*

The chamber maid, slipped tuppence ha’penny by Jack Sparrow upon his arrival, had built up a decent fire. Jack set his cold, sodden boots beside it, and slung his coat over the back of a chair; pulled back the curtain from force of habit, to check the fenestrial escape routes, and shivered theatrically at the icy air that lay against the glass. He twitched the curtain back into place, and scowled.

Jack Sparrow had been remarkably lucky in life, in many ways; not the least of them the fact that he’d always been, effortlessly, an object of desire. Had always known how to look at another person, how to speak to them, how to touch them, in ways that made them want him. He liked to consider it his natural charm, though truth be told he wasn’t averse to employing additional tools of seduction, viz., substantial amounts of liquor and _in_ substantial promises. One way or another though, he’d always won through with ease; and there were many, male and female both, who’d been delighted to have Jack Sparrow at their side.

Jack’d never been with someone who treated him like… like a dirty secret. (Well, not the _bad_ sort of dirty secret, any rate.) And for that someone to be _this_ someone, to be _Jack Shaftoe!_ It left a foul taste in his mouth. He glared blackly at his reflection in the cracked, greening mirror that hung over the fireplace.

“Fuck him,” he said out loud.

His mirror image narrowed its eyes and seemed to say, _Ooh, wouldn’t you just love to?_

“No,” Jack said, not looking himself in the eye. “No, I would not. Not if he’s got such a poker up his arse about it.” And he blew out the candle and climbed into bed.

Fire or no fire, it was not warm at all.

*

The door creaked open.

“Jack?”

Jack heaved a great sleepy breath, though he was utterly awake, and only cracked his eye open the tiniest chink. He watched Jack Shaftoe pad quietly into the room, boots in one hand, all dim ruby in the light of the dying fire. Shaftoe went to it, and poked it into life, throwing on another log; then stood with his back to’t, nothing but a silhouette in the darkness, silent and unmoving.

Several very long slow minutes passed before Jack finally snapped, “ _What?_ ” and was deliciously gratified by Shaftoe’s startle and subsequent growl.

“Should’ve known you weren’t bloody asleep.”

“Finished wi’ your mate, already? That was quick.”

“He was less amusing than I recalled,” said Shaftoe shortly; then, lower, “I s’pose I’ve ‘come accustomed to more entertaining company, Jack.”

That was more like it; and Shaftoe suddenly shrugging off his coat and popping the buttons of his weskit was more like it still. Jack just watched as Shaftoe wrenched his way out of his clothing, as more and more of that warm shadowy skin came visible, as firelight glinted on gold hairs and flexing muscles; as the dark strong naked shape of Jack Shaftoe took one, two, three steps closer and then climbed into the bed beside him.

Jack was waiting for the outburst, and here it came: “What the fuck is _this?_ ” muttered Shaftoe, voice rich with outrage, plucking at Jack’s shirt.

It did, Jack had to admit, feel a little strange, to be abed with Shaftoe beside him and still be clothed.

“Thought you might be a while,” he said, silkily. “’Tis a chill night, Jack.”

Shaftoe’s warm, wide hands were busy already, working the linen upwards, baring skin that he could rub his own against. “True enough,” he murmured. “But I told you I’d warm you, din’t I?”

He pulled Jack’s shirt over his head, and Jack growled low in his throat as Shaftoe lowered himself down on top of Jack, skin on skin, heavy and hot, warming him inside and out at the same time.

“You did, you did,” Jack said, and he ran his hands down Shaftoe’s back, from the sharp wings of his shoulderblades, down the furrow of his spine, to the delicious muscled indentations that sat above his buttocks. Hummed his pleasure as he felt Jack Shaftoe swell against his hip.

Some perverse urge made him add, “But I bet you din’t tell your mate that was what you were goin’ to do.”

Shaftoe’s mouth, which had been doing delightful things against Jack’s neck, stopped.

“None of his fucking business,” Shaftoe said truculently. “Besides which, Jack, this ain’t the Caribbean; and you ain’t Captain of your own little world, out here. This world’s got its own rules.”

“Rules, is it? You never struck me as a man to worry ‘bout the rules, mate.”

Shaftoe gave a grunt of laughter, and Jack pressed home his advantage, spreading his thighs and pulling Shaftoe’s hips down hard, grinding against him. “Fuck the rules,” he whispered. “Fuck ‘em. They ain’t for men like you an’ me. Give me your mouth, Jack.”

Shaftoe gave an odd little groan, and then his lips were on Jack’s; and Jack, tired of playing the injured party, kissed him hard, shoving the fingers of one hand up into Shaftoe’s hair, pulling him close as Jack opened his mouth wide, inviting Shaftoe in, and in Shaftoe came, in a hot flurry of kissing and licking and biting. He raised himself on one elbow, breaking the contact between them—Jack gave a mewl of disappointment—and reached down to Jack’s breeches, unbuttoning and tugging. Jack helped him, wriggled and kicked his way free, and let out a delighted sound as Shaftoe covered him again, all muscled heat, heavy torso and hard strong legs… and oh yes, the urgent pressure of his yard just where the vein throbbed in Jack’s groin. Jack groaned his approval.

Shaftoe buried his face in Jack’s hair, giggled, put a hand over his mouth. “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh, Jack, you mustn’t—”

“I mustn’t?”

“Just, just keep it down; though, I promise, I’m goin’ to make that a hard thing to do, Jack. Ah, Christ, I’m going to fuck you till you want to _howl_.”

“Can’t do it,” Jack muttered, curling one leg up over Shaftoe’s body. “Can’t be quiet, Jack, not with you in me.”

“Got to.” Shaftoe’s cock was weeping, making a sweet slippery viscous spot on Jack’s hip, and Shaftoe sucked in air through his teeth as he ground into it, over and over, his buttocks clenching under Jack’s spread fingers.

Jack took advantage of his distraction and rolled them both over. “Got a better idea,” he murmured, close against Jack Shaftoe’s panting mouth. “Let’s see if _you_ can do’t instead, eh, darlin’?”


	4. European Physick, Chapter Four

  
  
Would wicked, wonderful Jack Sparrow never leave off teasing? Never let things be just what they were? Never stop pushing and testing and provoking? (Though if Jack hadn't been attempting to be very quiet indeed, he'd've instructed Sparrow never to stop the more _tangible_ things he was doing, with his prick pressing and sliding 'gainst Jack's, and his murmured _darlin'_ like a warm sunshine in Jack's soul.)

"Oh," said Jack Shaftoe softly, against the scratchy warmth of Sparrow's cheek, "I c'n be silent as the grave, me."

Sparrow snorted, and his hand -- still slightly chilly, even after so long abed, and then these last few minutes in contact with Jack's own warm skin -- slid down between the two of them and wrapped itself 'round Jack's yard. Jack, though, had been expecting this ploy, or one very like it, and he merely smiled more broadly up at Sparrow, a dark intricate silhouette above him.

'Twasn't as if he minded being on this end of proceedings, so to speak. Indeed, he'd been making up for lost time all the long days (and oooh, the nights) of the Atlantic crossing; letting Jack Sparrow ravage and savage him in every way Jack could imagine, and quite a few that had simply never occurred to him. Christ, but Jack Sparrow was the most deliciously inventive lover Jack'd ever encountered. How had he resisted for so long? And, more importantly, why? Jack Shaftoe was nobody's fool, but sometimes -- in the dark privacy of his own thoughts, sinking down to sleep -- he wondered if he hadn't been a little too vehement about not wanting ... not wanting to be fucked, not wanting this man to fuck him. Never mind the trifling inconvenience of being seen in company with such an eccentric: Jack knew the delights hidden in every sinew, nerve and muscle of Sparrow's lithe body, and would not give them up.

Didn't mean he was going to squeak and gibber the moment Sparrow's fingers curled around his balls, or, o Jesus and all the saints, when Sparrow's agile tongue flicked sharply over his nipple. Heavens, no. Jack Sparrow might be prone to vocalising his appreciation (a habit that Jack'd done his utmost to encourage) but Jack was made of sterner stuff, and while discretion was necessary, 'twas surely best that ... that ...

Jack Sparrow was moving lower beneath the covers, sliding his mouth across Jack's belly, and Jack could not hold back a gasp as that wicked tongue pressed hard and sweet, just for a moment, against the head of his cock.

"Ssssh!" came a muffled demand, and that delicious wet heat was removed.

Jack breathed out slow and calm, and tried to let the glorious sensations wash over him, to float away on a tide of sheer simple lust: but Sparrow was in a provoking sort of mood, and no sooner had his fingers -- slick, already, with that sweet-scented salve -- stroked over the smooth taut skin behind Jack's balls than they were gripping his prick again, stroking him hard and sure, so that Jack must bite his lip to keep from groaning aloud.

Somewhere in the inn, a door creaked, and there came the heavy tread of booted feet on bare wooden stairs. Jack reached down, hoping, if not to restrain Sparrow, then at least to balance the situation with some provocation of his own: but all he could do was clench his fingers in Sparrow's thick hair, breath whistling between his teeth as that mouth, that mouth ...

* * *

Oh, this was a fine game: and finer still, in Jack Sparrow's opinion, because he truly didn't give a shit as to whether Shaftoe stayed quiveringly, shiveringly quiet or yelled his head off, as he had that memorable night off Cape Finisterre, when Jack had demonstrated a particular technique that he'd been refining ever since Singapore. O, Jack Shaftoe! Roaring with pleasure even while he laughed at his own excesses, writhing under Jack's tongue and teeth and fingers and cock ...

But Jack was sure he could elicit some manner of response without a tenth of that effort; and besides, it was too bloody cold in this draughty place to throw back the covers and feast his eyes on Shaftoe. Not that Shaftoe's shivering had much to do, at a guess, with the ambient temperature. Jack twisted his fingers, not too rough but not especially gentle neither, and Shaftoe twitched from head to toe.

Jack would've loved to spin this out all night, but the taste of Shaftoe's skin (and most especially his yard), not to mention the squirming and writhing and panting, was having an undeniable effect on his own person. He wriggled back up Shaftoe's taut, hot, sweating torso -- fingers still busily stretching and teasing and opening Shaftoe's arse -- and bestowed a kiss on Shaftoe's wet red mouth.

Or, rather, where Shaftoe's mouth would've been, if he hadn't been biting his hand to keep quiet.

"That's cheating," reproved Jack in a whisper, right next to Shaftoe's ear: his free hand was firmly prising Shaftoe's own from its duty as impromptu gag, bringing it to Jack's lips so that he could kiss and lick and soothe away the ridged toothmarks. Phant'sied he could feel the shape, inverted, of that snaggle-tooth, and licked harder, yard pressing against Shaftoe's thigh.

Jack Shaftoe's breath was coming fast and ragged, and Jack longed to be inside him: inside that hot clever mouth (but no, that would constitute another Gag, and take the challenge out of the occasion) or, no, to slide in, here, _here_ ... He scissored his fingers, and caught Shaftoe's gasp against his own mouth; murmured against Shaftoe's lips, hardly loud enough for himself to hear, "I'll stop if you can't stay silent, Jack," and was bitten and licked for his words.

"Fuckin' _tease_ ," breathed Shaftoe, as vehement as a shout.

Jack pulled the blankets up 'round his shoulders like a cloak, and knelt over Shaftoe, gazing down. A log in the fire had blazed up, tickled by some stray gust of night air, and the embery glow was enough to show him Jack Shaftoe's face streaked with sweat -- just as it had been in more tropic climes -- and his lip puffed and bleeding where he'd bitten it, keeping quiet.

Oh, how Jack longed to make him cry out. To make him call Jack Sparrow's name, loud enough for all of bloody England to hear, never mind that sly-eyed Nevison fellow in his lonely bed. To claim Jack as his own, and to be claimed. _Fuck_ rumour, and scandal, and priggish Englishmen.

He rotated his hand so that Jack Shaftoe's breath hitched, and his back arched: gave himself a last slow, gentle stroke, and, still kneeling, pulled Shaftoe t'wards him, thighs spread, prick shiny against his belly. The bed creaked beneath them.

"Remember," whispered Jack, propping himself on Shaftoe's raised knees and leaning forward, "not ... a ... sound." And he set the solid, swollen head of his yard against that slick secret place, and pushed.

* * *

O Christ this was agony, albeit of the most ecstatic kind that Jack Shaftoe'd ever encountered. He hung there half-fucked, just the head of Sparrow's cock inside him, stretching him in a way that fingers never could: hard and alive, not quite stinging, not quite throbbing, not quite ... and yet ... and yet ...

Jack concentrated on breathing, and on silence. 'Twas a kind of torture, now he thought of it: taking it, taking all that Jack Sparrow gave him, and suppressing his very natural pleasure in that gift. (Jack thought of other occasions on which he had _not_ suppressed his reactions, and blushed. One thing he'd say for the situation: he hadn't felt cold for quite a while.)

Sparrow was ... wasn't moving. Was sitting there, his hands firm on Jack's thighs, his yard a scant inch within Jack's arse, the flickering firelight drawing gold from his smile. One hand slid down the slope of Jack's leg, down to where his prick twitched and wept against his belly, and Jack thought hard about ... about the chimney, which clearly wasn't drawing properly, or perhaps, perhaps --

"Oh Christ," he mouthed, and even if there'd been no need for silence he might not have mustered the air to give voice to that sentiment: for Jack Sparrow, lithe Jack Sparrow with his bones made of rubber and his muscles made of, hmm, something very stretchy indeed, oh Christ, Sparrow -- the head of his yard still just barely inside Jack -- had his hand round Jack's own prick, and his tongue, his tongue, lapping --

Jack bit his own tongue, for making bestial noises was one thing and imploring Jack Sparrow (aloud, out loud, and in precise, demanding detail) quite another. He squirmed on the dirty sheet, trying to get some purchase, trying to drive himself further onto that tantalising impalement without twisting away from the divine -- the devilish -- torment visited upon that _other_ most sensitive part of his corpus. Flung both arms over his face, muffling the groan that he knew would emerge before another minute had passed: found his wrists grasped and pushed down to the mattress -- and, oh _hell_ , that exquisite confusion transmuted to the single pleasure of a hard prick, Jack Sparrow's hard prick, pressing slowly into him -- as Sparrow breathed, so quiet Jack couldn't have heard him if he hadn't been choking on his own breath, "Oh no, Jack: let me watch you, love."

Jack set his jaw and clenched his teeth: clenched some other parts of himself too, and was rewarded by something very like a _sound_ from Sparrow. Oh, and then it was all on, Sparrow thrusting hard into him and drawing back slow-slow-slow 'til Jack arched and writhed and mutely -- o, surely every fibre of his body spoke for him! -- entreated more, faster, harder, deeper. But Sparrow, perfidious glorious Jack Sparrow, would not: oh, his breath might be near as ragged as Jack's, and his pulse -- Jack could feel it in half a dozen different places where they touched -- hammering and pounding like an echo, but his bared teeth (not so much a smile, now, as a rictus grin) gleamed in the golden light, and he held back, held back ...

"You. Just. Wait," mouthed Jack, staring up at his love: and he set himself to wring a response from Jack Sparrow, to writhe and buck at each slow thrust, to hook his foot against the muscled curve of Sparrow's arse and get him closer, nearer, more completely _inside_.

Sparrow hissed, and Jack wanted to cheer aloud: but suddenly he was bent, crushed, breathless, Sparrow's mouth (gold, malt and a salty tang that shewed he'd been biting his lip too) was on Jack's own, swallowing any hallelujah or paean Jack might've been inspired to emit. Sparrow's hand was quick and rough on Jack's prick, stroking him hard, his thumb rubbing that spot beneath the head, as perfect as Jack'd ever touched himself. Jack flexed his own hands: wound the fingers of the right into Sparrow's hair to keep the kiss, and with his left hand clawed at Sparrow's hip, tilting his whole body up t'wards each thrust, too overwhelmed by it all to do more than grind his mouth against Jack Sparrow's and hope that the noises they were both making, now, would drown each other out: he bit hard on Sparrow's lip as he fell over the edge, and felt -- surely felt -- the curiously distant, deep rush of heat inside himself as Jack Sparrow, with a strangled yell, spent and slackened in and on and over Jack.

* * *

Jack Sparrow stretched, and wriggled, and grinned to himself as the memory of each ache's provenance returned to him, slow and easy in the dim blue light of another bloody English morning. He closed his eyes, returning to that dim firelit place where Shaftoe writhed beneath him, mouthing imprecations and endearments. Oh dear Lord, Jack Shaftoe: Shaftoe with all his rules and prudence and coy requests for silence, Shaftoe with his gasping desperation, Shaftoe with his body made of fire and muscle and nerve. Take that, Jack Shaftoe! And oh, but he'd taken it. Taken it all.

Jack grinned more, tugging the blankets closer around himself, and reached out for Shaftoe's reliable warmth. The bed smelt (nay, stank) of the two of them, of what they'd done last night. Jack inhaled deeply, and felt a certain promising heaviness in his groin. Eyes still closed, he stretched his arm further, feeling the warmth -- not to mention a certain vestigial stickiness -- where Shaftoe'd lain. Where'd he got to, so early? Was there not a chamberpot beneath the bed?

Jack cracked open an eye. The fire had died down in the night, leaving a grey mess of ash. Jack's clothes were heaped haphazardly on the floor beside the bed, where Jack Shaftoe'd let them drop as he stripped Jack so, mmm, forcefully beneath the covers. Of Shaftoe's clothes, and the man himself, there was nothing to be seen.

Only for a moment did Jack consider the possibility of Shaftoe having fled in the night, run off with his charming highwayman acquaintance. Jack was sure of Jack Shaftoe now, never mind those looks last night in the tap-room: sure of Shaftoe, heart and soul. And body.

And besides, wasn't that Shaftoe coming upstairs? _Running_ upstairs, by the sound of it. (Jack winced sympathetically.) In a damn'd hurry about --

"That bastard!" howled Jack Shaftoe, irrupting into the room amid a gale of icy air. Shaftoe's hair was dishevelled, his shirt untucked, his face flushed with rage. "I'll fucking kill the bastard!"


	5. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Five

  


It didn’t occur to Jack, not for the most infinitesimal sliver of a moment, that the object of Shaftoe’s wrath could be anyone other than that—that—that fucking _whoreson_ highwayman. He didn’t even wait to confirm it; leapt out of bed (the cold air hit his bare skin like a bank of snow) and demanded, “What’s he—”

“Everything! He’s taken every penny, every last reale! I don’t _fucking_ believe it!”

Jack went to his coat, where it was slung across the chair back. He hefted it, and a sick stony weight slammed into his gut. No need to rifle his pockets. He knew what was gone.

Shaftoe was pacing, blaspheming, quivering with rage (‘t’would’ve been worth watching, if Jack hadn’t been half blind with anger himself). “Jesus Christ, that traitorous—after all we’d been through together! I fought ‘longside the bastard! He taught me half I know!”

Jack slung his coat on, to avoid sudden death by freezing. He screwed his eyes shut. “Wait, Jack, wait, hold a moment,” he said, putting out a hand to stop Shaftoe in mid-wrathful-stride. “Are you sure—”

Shaftoe swung round, glaring. “’Course I’m bloody sure! He’s gone, ain’t he?”

“But… but how, Jack, how’d he get in and out without either one of us remarking upon it? Neither of us is an easy man to creep up on, mate.”

Jack Shaftoe scowled more blackly than ever. He slumped down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. “Firstly, Jack, the bastard’s the quietest thief I’ve ever met.”

“Quiet? He’s a bloody _highwayman_ ,” said Jack, who happened to think that there wasn’t a lot of skill involved in that particular branch of the Criminal Arts. “He jumps out from behind trees and shouts at people.”

Shaftoe snorted. “Only because he enjoys the drama of it, mate. That an’ the notoriety. How’s he going to get famous, sneaking about without anyone noticing him coming or going? No fun in that, is there?”

Jack supposed not. He pulled on his breeches. Cold like this shrank a fellow. Not a good look.

“And secondly,” continued Jack Shaftoe; and then he paused, and groaned, and put his head in his hands. “Secondly, Jack, I’m having a horrible recollection of a particular moment last night when, despite the myriad ways in which you were keeping me warm (and, I hope, vicky verky)—well, I seem to ‘member a sudden draught, only at the time I was rather preoccupied, and now I’m thinking…”

Jack was gobsmacked. “You think the devil snuck in while we were _fucking?_ ”

Shaftoe didn’t look up, he just groaned again.

“Not possible,” Jack declared, wishing he sounded a little more convincing.

“Jack, a parade of elephants an’ their mahouts could have passed through the room at that particular juncture and I wouldn’t have paid them any mind.”

“Really?” said Jack, unable to hold back a rather smug grin despite the situation. His anger was lessening already; only money, after all. Plenty more where that came from. Plenty more, when they found buyers for the Cure. And anyway, there were another six members of their party similarly well-endowed; surely they could make some temporary loans. The man who got to roger Jack Shaftoe into mute and blind insensibility couldn’t care too much, really, about a pickpocketing.

He was just on the verge of sharing this cheering philosophy with Shaftoe when John Burton burst through the door, Martingale on his heels. “Captain,” he cried, and Martingale yelled over the top of him, “We’ve been robbed!”

“Oh _bollocks_ ,” said Jack, his philosophy proving insufficient armour in the face of such outrageous provocation.

*

Down in the tavern, while a fascinated girl shovelled out the cold ashes from the grate and eavesdropped shamelessly while she laid the new fire, the _Black Pearl_ ’s party assessed the situation.

Nevison had been through the room over the stable, cleaned out the Indians’ pockets as well as Burton and Martingale’s. Jack was sullenly astounded. Swift Nick had certainly kept his hand in. He had balls, Jack had to give him that much. He mentally totted up the amount that must be stashed in Nick’s coat now: heavy enough to rip his pockets out. _Bastard._  
Lying, thieving, sneaky, _voyeuristic_ bastard.

Every time Jack thought of Nick, creeping into the room as Jack was gasping all breathy and sweaty and dishevelled beneath Sparrow’s onslaught—oh Christ, no! His mind swerved away from it. No point in dwelling on that when there were so many other thoughts to lambaste himself with. Such as the memory of boasting of his wealth, bouncing and jouncing that heavy purse in his palm. _Never been so flush in my life, mate_.

He just prayed no-one had seen _that_.

Enoch and Bill were the only ones who’d escaped. The eight of them argued, in a desultory fashion, over whether this was due to Nick’s not knowing which room they were in, or whether he’d been defeated by the cunning locks on Enoch Root’s travelling chest (“In which case,” Sparrow wondered, ”why din’t he get yours, Bill?” And Bill, insufferably, replied that he’d be a fool to spend a night in a room with such a well secured chest and not lock his coin away in it; and Jack, already half-haunted by the approaching spectre of Nauseating Sensibility in the form of brother Bob, made a rather rude noise)—or, perhaps, Martingale said snidely, he simply couldn’t _carry_ any more.

Burton had been keen to go after him, track him down and teach him a lesson; and he’d been close to convincing Sparrow of it, too, till Jack’d thrown open the door and they’d seen the amount of snow that’d come down in the night. “He’s got about eight hours on us,” Jack said, “eight hours, an’ a hundred bolt-holes, an’ a thousand friends who’ll lie for him; add that to a snowstorm, and tell me what our chances are, eh?”

“Fuck it. Any rate,” said Sparrow, pacing impatiently in front of the sputtering fire, nearly kicking the maid into the grate in his eagerness to get closer to flame, “the important thing is, we’ve still got the Cure, right, Enoch?”

Enoch patted the chest at his side, and nodded. He’d been growing more and more quiet and pre-occupied, the closer they came to their goal; Jack had the distinct feeling that Enoch had had enough of the Pirate Life, and was champing at the bit to get back to more esoteric pursuits.

“An’ once we’ve found our buyers, we’ll have more’n enough to see us through, and have some fun besides.”

“And till then?” said Burton. “We’re still a ways from London, Jack; and it ain’t right to make Djagdao an’ Will march through the snow.” He said this with a defensive glance in Jack’s direction, and Jack (because he liked John Burton, and had no wish to disappoint him in his expectations) rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh.

“Bill’s purse’ll see us through,” said Sparrow cheerfully. “Eh, Bill?”

There was an unexpected silence, then. Heads swivelled in Bill’s direction. He folded his arms, and set his jaw.

“That ain’t mine to give,” he said eventually. “That’s for my missus and our boy.”

“Yes, yes, yes, we’ll pay it all back on the way home, once we’ve sold the cure,” said Sparrow irritably.

“Too many _ifs_ in that scenario for my liking,” said Bill. “You cain’t have it, Jack.”

Sparrow looked flabbergasted, and then outraged. “Oh for Christ’s sake, Bill, we just need to get into London and eat for a few days, that’s all. What, you think I won’t pay you back?”

Bill picked at a threadbare embroidered cushion on the chair beside him. Finally he said, “I’ll bring us all as far as Deptford, an’ you’re all welcome at my table; but past that, Jack, you’ll have to look for other funds. I owe this to Kitty, an’ that’s an end of it.”

“P’rhaps we should go back to the ship,” Martingale offered. “There’s plenty more there; I din’t even bring all my stake, Cap’n.”

“Another two days in a bloody coach, there and back?” Jack, quite used to managing on the bare minimum of specie (viz., no specie at all) was appalled at the suggestion.

Enoch held up a hand. “No need. I’m happy to advance the consortium some additional seed-money. Perhaps not enough to cater to your every desire, but certainly enough to see you through the first stages of your enterprise.”

“ _Thank you_ , Mr Root,” said Sparrow, steepling his hands and nodding at the alchemist. “You’re very _generous_.” This last was accompanied by an evil (but perfectly well deserved, in Jack’s opinion) glare in the direction of Bill Turner.

Jack, knowing Enoch Root the best of all of them, always paid close attention whenever Enoch opened his mouth; you never knew what you might glean from his declarations. “’Your’ enterprise, Enoch?” he said. “Don’t you mean ‘our’ enterprise?”

A small smile lifted the corners of Enoch’s moustache. “Such perspicacity, Jack; you have divined my intentions. I have indeed decided to part company, at Greenwich. I trust it won’t inconvenience you too much to forward my share of the profits?”

There was a chorus of surprised protestations. Privately, Jack felt that it would indeed be sad to see Enoch go; but on the other hand, they’d travelled together a lot lately and their relationship was definitely at a point at which absence was the most likely element to make the heart grow fonder.

*

“I am _not_ ,” Jack Shaftoe had said very firmly, “getting on another damn’d coach.”

“But—” started Burton, gesturing at his semi-frozen Indian; and Jack, too, had been about to protest in the strongest terms, when Shaftoe’d winked, and said, “Calm down, gents, save your ire; all I meant was that we’re on the river proper now, an’ mine host says that the ferrymen’ve been able to navigate upriver these last two weeks. What say we take to the water?”

So Jack’d sent Bill down to the Gravesend wharf to find passage; because Bill was gentlemanly and presentable and smiled while he drove a hard bargain. And also because Bill was paying (cheap bastard). And also because it was cold out there and Jack was pissed off with him.

Bill was doubtless aware of every one of these reasons, but he capitulated gracefully, and they were underway before noon.

A very _little_ boat, it was, but Jack supposed it’d do. The river was still milky with broken ice, bobbing grey and treacherous on the dark water; her banks snow-covered, paler than the glowering, dirty clouds that seemed to scrape the scrawny tree-tops. Jack pulled his fur closer round his neck, and made a mental note to invest in decently lined gloves, when he was back in the money again.

Beside him, Shaftoe’d stayed uncharacteristically silent. No surprise, really. It was his mate that’d done it, after all; the fellow he’d vouched for.

Jack elbowed him, and Shaftoe looked up, face carefully blank. Lord, this weather suited him; brought colour to his cheeks where it drained it from other men’s, made his blue eyes sharper and clearer than ever. The dark knitted cap he’d cadged from some agreeable crew member was pulled down low, but sandy strands of hair escaped regardless. He was fiddling with a lock of it; nay, a plait. A plait with his own fingerbone at its end. Jack could never see it without recalling its placement, his own shivering delight as Shaftoe’s hot, cunning tongue curled and swirled about Jack’s yard. He sighed with pleasure.

“Listen, mate,” he said, leaning close so’s Bill, at his other side, wouldn’t overhear. “I don’t blame you for’t, alright?”

“Good,” said Shaftoe, “’cause it ain’t my fault.” But his attempt at defiance was a trifle half-hearted.

“If you hadn’t known him, an’ he’d robbed us on the coach, it would’ve been worse; could be he’d’ve taken the Cure, too.”

“If I hadn’t known him, I’d probably’ve shot him, an' everything'd be fine,” said Shaftoe gloomily.

“Ah, come on, ‘tis only money, Jack. Plenty more o’ that to be had.”

Shaftoe grunted.

“I din’t like him, anyway,” Jack said, and leaned closer still, till he was murmuring so close to Shaftoe’s ear that he could feel the hairs of his moustache catching and tickling.

“It was mutual.”

“See? The man was an idiot,” Jack muttered, and Shaftoe chuffed with laughter, and surprised Jack quite mightily by turning his head and capturing Jack’s mouth for a kiss, fleeting enough but hot and sparky for all that. Shaftoe's lip was still swollen and metallic from where he'd bitten it last night; Jack savoured the taste.

“It’s your fault we was robbed, an’ you know it,” Jack Shaftoe said, very low and fast in Jack’s ear. “Doing what you did to me, last night; insensible, I was.”

Jack closed his eyes, plunged into a delicious, pulse-quickening memory of Jack Shaftoe twisting and mutely demanding, eyes panicky-wide, fingers digging fiercely into Jack’s flesh, and oh, the burning grip of his muscled arse round Jack’s yard!

He was just about to share this pleasurable reminiscence, in quite unnecessarily graphic detail, when Shaftoe’s tongue slipped wetly round the outside of Jack’s ear, rendering him briefly speechless; and then Jack Shaftoe whispered promises of pleasures to be repaid and insensibility to come, and those promises kept Jack’s blood warm with anticipation for all the cold, wet miles of the grey River Thames; as they passed North Fleet and Purfleet and through Long Reach, past Erith Church and Barking, through Gallions Reach and Woolwich, all the way to the moon’s rise over Greenwich.


	6. European Physick, Chapter Six

  
  
They had dined, at Enoch's insistence, in a tavern of the better sort, the Spanish Galleon near Greenwich Steps. "A farewell feast," the alchemist had announced gravely, "and the last meal we'll share on this journey." And then he'd added, with that slow smile, "After all the gastronomic delights to which you've treated me aboard the _Black Pearl_ , Captain Sparrow, the least I can do is to repay you in kind."

"So, burnt bread and weevils all round, then!" Jack Shaftoe'd cried merrily. Opinion on his wit had been divided. Martingale and Burton had snickered: Bill and Enoch had rolled their eyes: Will and Djagdao had looked at him blankly. Sparrow, returning from ordering their accommodation, had paused a moment next to Jack, with a whispered promise to satisfy any appetites that remained unsated by the time they went to bed: a promise that'd kept Jack half-hard and three-quarters distracted all through dinner -- roast beef, dumplings, some elderly turnips -- and their farewell to Enoch, who would not stay to drink, but set off immediately for the house of his friend.

"Hope she's pleased to see you, mate," Burton had said, grinning.

" _Master_ Flamsteed's house is always open to those who bring learning," Enoch Root had said repressively.

Jack'd assumed that Bill would be off to Deptford and his Kitty just as soon as the wherry had tied up at the steps: but Bill, having muttered something about not wanting to show up half-starved and shivering in the middle of the night, had elected to sleep at the Galleon, and walk that last mile in the morning. "P'rhaps you'd like to come along with me," he'd said, rather pointedly, to Sparrow. "Pay your respects, an' all."

Jack was heartily relieved not to've been included in this invitation. For one thing, it seemed very likely to him that Bill -- never mind the heavy purse at his belt -- was in for a ear-bashing, having been absent for some years; whether or not his wife knew that he'd been first mate of a notorious pirate ship was a moot point. And for another, Jack had no very great desire to meet the lady responsible for Bill's collection of eye-wrenching shirts. The thought of a whole cottageful of such colours made his head ache.

"So," said Jack Sparrow, once he'd closed the door of their bedchamber firmly behind him, "you'll have to entertain yourself, tomorrow, least 'til I've made sure Bootstrap's all set."

"Why wouldn't he be?" wondered Jack, busy with Sparrow's buttons.

"Peculiar creatures, women," said Sparrow. "She might've taken it into her head to up and run. You never can tell. And there's a whelp, too: motherhood does strange things to a lass. Makes 'em awful ... fierce."

Jack shrugged. "True enough." Trying not to think about women, or mothers, or fierceness.

Considering the ale they'd consumed, and the lingering horror in Jack's heart of having been _watched_ \-- why, even as he pressed his naked skin 'gainst the pirate's own, he phant'sied he heard the creak of boards, the groan of hinges -- and the spectre of fiercely maternal Amazons that Sparrow'd raised, Jack thought he acquitted himself pretty well. Sparrow was moaning and gasping before Jack was half inside him, opening for Jack, reaching for him, sighing his name ... Jack'd made sure to keep one candle lit, for this was a sight he never tired of: Sparrow spread out beneath him, head back and spine arched, odd and beautiful and glorious and wholly intent on Jack Shaftoe. Jack wanted to babble of treasures and marvels, of what he'd brought home with him from the Caribbean, of what he valued more than anything Swift Nick could take. But he bit his lip against the words, in case someone was listening, and let his actions speak for him instead.

* * *

Morning in Greenwich was raw and grey, and Jack Sparrow -- muffled once more in his miscellany of silks and furs -- rather hoped that Bill Turner might've forgotten about him and set off for bloody Deptford alone. But no, his luck was out: Bill stood in the taproom, scowling and peering out at the rapid grey river, making it indubitably clear that he'd been waiting for some time.

_You_ try leaving a warm bed with Jack Shaftoe naked between the sheets, Jack thought but did not say. After all, that was the point, wasn't it? That Bill'd be reunited with the object of _his_ affections, the redoubtable Kitty: that he'd have the chance, at last, to get rid of all those pent-up humours (Jack disapproved of abstinence on principle, though was certainly not interested in doing anything to counter it in this particular case): and maybe getting laid would put a smile on his face, for he'd been dour company since before the lookout had sighted the Lizard.

"We could take a boat?" suggested Jack, shivering as somebody opened the street-door and a gust of freezing air swept through the room.

"We'll walk," said Bill. "It ain't more than a mile, Jack: or have you forgot the use of your legs, eh?"

Jack smiled tightly at him, wondering if a description of the aches and sorenesses resultant from Jack Shaftoe's attentions would release him from this excursion. On the other hand, he wanted Bill Turner back on board at the end of this stopover. Best omit the detail.

"Lovely morning for a bracing walk," he said brightly. "After you, Mr Turner."

Jack had forgotten the sheer squalor of English towns. Oh, there was squalor aplenty in the Caribbean, but it was a warm lazy squalor: not this grinding poverty that left children huddled in rat-infested doorways, bruise-faced whores loitering on corners, hunched figures in threadbare rags huddling round stinking braziers, not bothering to look up as Jack and Bill went by. The roads were muddy, and Jack's boots were filthy to the knee before they'd crossed the Creek.

"Round here somewhere," said Bill unhelpfully, peering down a narrow, rutted street. "Butts Street, she said."

Jack sighed dramatickally. "Can't you ask someone?" he said.

"No rush, is there?" said Bill, not meeting Jack's gaze. "Shaftoe and the boys'll wait for you, won't they?"

"Course they will," said Jack. "Why wouldn't they?"

"Well," said Bill Turner, "London's Jack Shaftoe's country, ain't it? And din't you say he had family somewhere?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Oh, nothing," said Bill, striking off t'wards an especially dingy alleyway. "Just thought he might have ... business of his own."

Jack took a moment to reflect on Shaftoe as he'd last seen him, curled up naked in a warm bed, making lewd suggestions as to what Jack might do instead of tramping all the way to Deptford: on the little chest of Cure-ingredients that sat, firmly locked, at the side of that bed: on the probable reactions of the other members of the party when they finally saw London Town, a dim smoky steeple-spined mirage on the western horizon. "Mr Shaftoe's in no hurry, mate," he said. "He'll ..."

But Bill wasn't listening. He was holding up a shiny sixpence, and beckoning to the nearest child, a scowling brat with a dirty face and mud in its hair.

"For you, lad," said Bill, "if you can tell us the way to Mistress Turner's house, in Butts-Street."

The child sidled nearer, clearly torn between cupidity and common sense.

"There's a good lad," said Jack, with his least threatening smile.

The boy pulled a face like a gargoyle. "Who wants to know?" he said, belligerently.

"Mr William Turner," said Bootstrap. "And that there's Captain Jack Sparrow."

"There, see? You scared him off," said Jack smugly, as the boy fled.

* * *

Greenwich was a poky little place, but with the Naval Yards just up-river there was a surprising amount of entertainment to be had. Jack Shaftoe, self-appointed leader of their little gang, had set Burton and Djagdao (the latter almost violet with cold, and disinclined to do anything much save huddle in the taproom) to watch over the party's worldly goods -- being the Cure and a few personal effects -- and was now leading Jamie Martingale and Will the Warao through the alleyways and yards between river and market-place, searching for a Good Time that involved warmth, strong drink and low amusement.

"This ain't a _city_ ," he was saying over his shoulder to Martingale. " _London's_ a city. This is just a little town -- why, no more than a village, to be strictly accurate. Ain't you never been to a city, Jamie Martingale?"

Martingale started to shake his head, but his attention was caught by something new. (Jack followed the direction of his gaze, but could only see a print-shop.) "Not 'cept Port Royal," confessed Martingale, still gawping. "And that weren't anything like this."

"Darn sight warmer, I reckon," said Jack, with a sympathetic grin for Will, who -- swaddled like an infant against the raw spring weather -- was eyeing the printed sheets suspiciously.

"That it was," said Martingale. "Ain't there somewhere warm we could go, 'til Captain Sparrow comes back?"

"What, you don't want to see the Hospital, an' the Observatory, and the ships coming in?" cried Jack, whose memories of Greenwich's attractions were a decade out of date. "Might be a madman or two at the Hospital, if we're lucky."

"Nah," said Martingale, with a sly grin. "Got a mad Captain, ain't I?"

Jack cuffed him, not especially hard, for this disloyal (though accurate) statement. He couldn't reasonably deny that Jack Sparrow was vastly more entertaining than any drooling idiot to be found in the mad-cells. And Sparrow, surely, wouldn't stay long at Bill's wife's place. Then they could be on their way again, into the heart of London: t'wards wealth, fame, fortune and success. And also, Jack reminded himself, t'wards Bob. And the boys.

A small bloke with a handful of papers emerged, at speed, from an alleyway, nearly knocking Jack off his feet. Jack returned the favour, with interest: and things might have become interesting if Martingale hadn't scooped up one of the handbills, and cried out, "A mermaid!"

"A what?" said Jack, stepping back and flexing his fingers. Might as well let the fellow scramble to his feet: Jack's heart wasn't in it, this morning.

"A mermaid, Sir," said the small bloke, nursing his bruised jaw. "Thruppence each to see her, it is. Taken by a fisherman off Rye, she was, an' brought to Greenwich to be shown." He looked Jack up and down. "'Course, bein' sailors, you'll know all about mermaids," he added, leering.

"What is mermaid?" Jack heard Will ask Martingale.

"Half fish, half woman," said Martingale.

Will muttered something.

"No, the top half. With the tits."

Jack could see where this one was going. "Righto," he said to the small man. "Where d'you keep your mermaid, then?"

The mermaid was exhibited in the back room of the Drum, a gloomy shack redolent of swadust and piss. There were a dozen men at the door from the common-room, trying to shove their way past the rather desperate-looking fellow demanding their admission fee. By the fire, two tallish fellows in rough coats were talking, loudly and rather repetitively, about what they'd seen.

"Aye, an' the tail on 'er!"

"I reckon she could give you a right clobbering with that."

"But how'd you, you know ..."

The dark-haired bloke turned to make sure of his audience, and launched into a detailed, yet curiously dull, monologue concerning the sexual habits of mermaids. Jack Shaftoe rolled his eyes.

"Is that true?" whispered Martingale, wide-eyed.

"Every word of it," Jack lied cheerfully. _Obviously_ mermaids could only do it with their mouths. Though, given his previous experience with the species (or rather, with a fellow at Bartholomew Fair who'd needed a hand with his sewing), Jack was prepared to bet that this one wouldn't.

And anyway, no mermaid could match Jack Sparrow. Jack, blocking out the dark man's stilted speech ("... and they do say that if you buy her a golden comb, she'll put her mouth ...") allowed himself a brief, happy reverie.

The people coming out of the back room -- not just men, but women and children too -- didn't seem overly disappointed in what they'd seen. And the fellow by the door, holding out his hand for Jack's thruppence, looked well-fed. Dear Christ, but there were a lot of fools around! Nobody, they said, had ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the London Mobb.

Will and Martingale, and Jack behind them, went through the doorway into a dimly-lit space. The windows were curtained with badly-dyed green cloth, and a few candles flickered in glass sconces. It was like being underwater: or at least, thought Jack, it was _supposed_ to be like that. Himself, he remembered the press and rush of water around him, the bright mirror surface of the water above, the vice-like pressure of Jack Sparrow's hand 'round his wrist --

"Jack?"

"Sorry, miles away," said Jack.

The mermaid was arranged in a half-barrel of murky, stenchful water. She had lank brown hair and staring eyes, and hardly any tits to speak of. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at Jack Shaftoe, who -- flipping half a crown to the broad-shouldered fellow by the side of the barrel -- had wandered closer for a good look. Not at all what he'd expected, after the straw-stuffed monstrosity at Bartholomew Fair: though, come to think of it, the smell was much the same.

"Ain't you cold?" he said.

The mermaid said nothing.

"She don't talk," said the burly man. "From the sea, in't she?"

"Bollocks," said Jack. "Look, you can see where the skin's glued on. What was it, a seal?" And, to the mermaid, "I hope you're getting a good cut out of him, darling: if I were you, I'd spend it on a hot bath. And some scent."

The three of them did not stay long after that: indeed, their exit was remarkably rapid. But even as he was barging his way back through the market, trying to shake the burly man from the Drum whilst keeping Martingale and Will in sight, Jack's brain was busily turning over what he'd learnt.

Item: Rare or Novel Creature.

Item: Exhibition of Same.

Item: _Profit_.


	7. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Seven

  


In the absence of any alternative Navigational Indicators, Jack and Bill wandered in the direction the boy’d taken, Bill peering intently for street signs and muttering to himself about his wife’s choice of neighbourhood while Jack concentrating on not stepping in anything too likely to linger on his boots or in his nostrils.

“Can’t believe the woman’d rather live here than come out West wi’ us,” Bill grumbled, but not with any real rancour. Any word that he uttered about his Kitty came out with a warm fond tone in it that made Jack feel quite sick. He was sure he never talked about Jack Shaftoe like that.

“Bloody _hell_! Will ye look at it!” cried a voice from above, and dissolved in a gale of giggles; Jack scowled upwards to where a clutch of grubby-faced children peered from a garret, clearly finding something highly entertaining. Jack looked hard at Bill, but he didn’t seem to be doing anything particularly notable. A mystery. But now the children were calling out to their neighbours across the alleyway, and other faces were appearing, pale faces peering out ghostly behind the white clouds of their breath; doors opened, and slammed shut again the second Jack turned to look.

Jack’d about had enough; and was close to suggesting to Bill that he continue solus, when a despairing maternal cry (“William Edward Turner, will you _look_ at the state of you!”) told them that they had found Butts Street.

“Kitty? Kitty!” Bill broke into a run, his face wreathed in smiles, and waved madly at the tousled woman who stood at her door, one hand firmly round the upper arm of a child who was, indeed, in a state; Jack recognised the little wretch that’d run from them a few minutes earlier. “That’s—” he began, but Bill wasn’t even in earshot.

“Bill? Oh my gracious, _Bill!_ ” The child was released, and Kitty, skirts in hand and tears seeming to form from nowhere on her cheeks, was running towards her husband.

Reunions, eh? Lovely. Jack tried not to roll his eyes as his first mate caught his wife up in his arms and spun her round like a girl, laughing and saying her name, over and over. The child hung back in the doorway, wide-eyed and wordless. Jack felt rather sorry for him.

He hung back for a respectable two or three minutes as Bill (dry old Bill, where did he _put_ all that passion the rest of the time?) kissed his wife in a manner that was guaranteed to shock the neighbours. When Jack could stand it no longer he gave a polite cough. Kitty’s eyes flew open and she finally noticed that her husband was not alone; and despite the very affectionate smile that Jack bestowed upon her, her spine snapped straight again as she disentangled herself from Bill.

“Hello Jack,” she said, and her voice was near colder than the wind.

“Mrs Turner.” Jack took her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips; she tutted fractiously and started to look around as if her neighbours would be far more appalled by this than then had been by the spectre of her being half eaten alive by Bill. No point playing the proper lady now darlin’, Jack wanted to say; not with your mouth all red like that, and the way you’re breathing like you’ve just run half a mile.

Kitty pulled her hand away, and there was a tiny silence; Bill seemed dumbstruck, his face stupid with joy. Till his wife, out of the blue, slapped him, and cried, “A year, you said; eighteen months, no more; and you said that, William Turner, last _decade_!”

“I know, love, but—”

‘It was _not_ last decade!” Jack was incensed on his mate’s behalf, not to mention repulsed by his spinelessness. “It was the autumn of ’80, we saw you last! Down Portsmouth way!”

Kitty glared at him as if he’d just committed a most heinous sin. (Jack really wished Shaftoe were here to see this proof of Jack’s theorem about Maternal Ferocity, and smirk knowingly with him.) “A decade, Jack Sparrow, is ten years long,” she declared: “Hence it ends on the tenth year; and _don’t you dare_ argue with me in my own home.”

Bill, far from defending Jack from this unwarranted attack, smiled as if he were mightily impressed by his wife’s cleverness. No hope for backup from that quarter then.

“We ain’t in your home,” Jack pointed out, a trifle sullenly. “We’re in the street, Kitty, and it’s starting to rain again.”

Kitty narrowed her eyes. “Come on, Bill,” she said, grabbing Bootstrap’s hand; and Jack followed them inside.

*

“What d’you think of that, then, eh?”

Martingale looked up from his eel and stout pie, a look of greedy delight on his face. “Oh, Jack, it’s good! Really good!”

“Ain’t it, though? Fancy another mulled ale, mate?”

Martingale nodded, and Jack waved over at Mother Tuttle, using his left hand to signal for another three drinks; that good lady, remarking the absence of his finger yet again, nodded sympathetically and was at their table in minutes. Jack paid her, making sure to empty his whole purse to count it out; gave her a rather more generous tip than was strictly necessary.

“Jack?” Martingale frowned a little and chewed at his lip, but waited till their hostess had bustled off before leaning close and whispering, “Expensive, ain’t it? There ain’t a lot left, is there?”

Jack sighed. “No, mate. That’s City prices for you. Only going to get worse, in London.”

“But soon you’ll sell the Cure,” Martingale said. “Right, Jack? An’ then we’ll be fine?”

“Well, o’ course, but that might take a little while. But don’t you worry, mate, it never killed anyone to live a little thin for a few days. Look at me, on that isle you picked me up from; barely ate a thing for nigh on a week.”

“But… but we’ll need lodging, too. Warm lodging.” The lad glanced over at his Indian, and pouted. “I’d a mind for me and Will to stay some fine place, Jack, with a good fire, where we could have a great soft bed. Will don’t even know what that’s like.”

A beetle-browed fellow at the neighbouring table gave Martingale a dubious sideways glance. Jack glared at him and he harrumphed and turned away.

With an apologetic shrug and a sigh, Jack leant over and stole a particularly toothsome looking piece of eel from Will’s unfinished pie. “Amazing, ain’t it, how quickly the money can just slip from your fingers, in a place like London. So much to do, an’ little enough of it free. What’d you think of that mermaid, eh?”

Martingale snorted, wrinkling his nose. “I reckon we could make a more convincing one out o’ Joe Henry an’ one of Mr Turner’s shirts.”

Jack laughed. “You prob’ly ain’t far wrong. But still, I bet those fellows were creaming it, don’t you reckon?”

Martingale stared up at the horse brasses lining the mantle, his lips moving as he calculated probable daily takings. “Yes,” he concluded, with a wistful glance at the remains of Enoch Root’s insufficient seed-money.

“Pity, really,” Jack mused, “that we don’t have anything like a mermaid to show, eh?”

He had to hand it to the lad, he wasn’t just a pretty face. Light dawned instantly. “But—we—we've—” Jamie Martingale stuttered, putting down his knife and gesticulating madly. Then he apparently thought better of offering Will’s corpus without its owner’s permission; he gave Jack a sly look, and then said to Will, “Have you noticed, Will, how people stare at you? Like those fellows in Gravesend, t’other night?”

Will shrugged. “I am strange to them,” he said, and added, “and they are strange to me.”

Casting an unbiased eye over the denizens of Mother Tuttle’s Eel Pye House, variously hairy, beet-nosed, whey-faced, blue-eyed, red-headed, et cetera, Jack had to admit that he had a point.

“They’ve never seen an Indian, I mean a Warao, before,” said Jamie, looking at Will with an impressive mixture of innocence and admiration. “Just like they never seen a mermaid before. An’ you… why, you’re far more real, far more special, than that prank of a mermaid.”

Jack battled hard not to recall the more real and special aspects of Will’s person, viz., the gold adornments that Jack happened to’ve noted on his privy member. He drank his ale as if he had no idea what Martingale was getting at.

Will tapped the coins on the table. “This is what you want?” he said. “This… metal?”

“Aye, love, we need money,” Jamie said. “Like what was stolen from us by Jack’s—by that highwayman. Why, if we’ve got money…” He smiled wickedly, and whispered something in Will’s ear, his red mouth brushing the Indian’s cheek, and Will dropped his eyes.

“We can get money if I will… will be like a mermaid,” Will said, carefully, blankly.

Jack opened his eyes wide over the top of his tankard, and spluttered a little. “Christ Almighty,” he said, “I don’t know where you two get your ideas from. But that is sheer genius.”

*

Kitty pushed the boy before her, back into the downstairs room where Bill and Jack were seated at the table. A homely room, but warm, Jack had to give it that. And dim, which was, he suspected, a definite advantage; the large floral patterns on the rag-rug before the fireplace would probably blind a fellow, else. Kitty’s enormous sewing basket sat at the foot of the rocking chair next to the hearth. He was tempted to accidentally set fire to it, for all their sakes.

“Go on Will, go on sweetheart; go and say hello to your father,” she whispered.

Cleaned up and un-muddied, the child was the spit of Bill, dark thick hair and serious eyes. He came forward, all polite and stiff, and held out his hand. “How d’ye do, sir,” he said. Jack bit back a laugh.

Bill smiled, and took the cold little paw in both of his. “Very well, William,” he said. “Very well, and all the better for seeing you and your mother. I brought you something; would you like it now?”

Will nodded. Bill dug out the painted spinning top that he’d been dragging round with him for at least a year by Jack’s reckoning, and the boy’s face split into a smile. Looked a lot better, smiling. “Will you help me spin it, Father?” he asked.

Jack glanced up at Kitty, and found her eyes on him already; she dropped her gaze, and went to see to the kettle, hooking it over the fire.

“Will you stay for some tea, Jack?” She’d thawed a little, but it was hardly a warm welcome.

And Jack couldn’t blame her for that. He was the man who took her husband away from her, and didn’t give him back for years on end; he was the man who’d convinced Bill that a merchant sailor’s life’d make him nothing but bored and poor and miserable, no matter what his wife might think.

“Don’t think I can,” Jack said, attempting regret. “Lot to get on with, I’m afraid. Just wanted to stop by, pay my respects and all that.”

Kitty gave a sour little laugh. “Respects,” she said in a low voice, as if it were a sentiment that Jack was quite incapable of.

“You’ve got a sword!” Will said suddenly; Jack looked down to where his coat had fallen open. “Can I see it?”

“Certainly,” said Jack, mostly because he calculated that it would annoy Kitty, and he stood and unsheathed his weapon with a snicking ring, flicking it up into the air and catching the flashing blade. Kitty gave an involuntary yelp. The boy came close, but he did not take the proffered hilt; instead he ran his small fingertips along the flat of the blade.

“Careful,” Jack told him. “Sharp, that is; don’t want to cut yourself.”

“Have you killed lots of people with this?” Grave as an old man, he was.

“Now why would I do that?” Jack asked.

The boy shrugged. “Because they were bad?”

“Well then,” said Jack cheerfully, “I daresay that’d be a pretty good reason to slice ‘em in two, eh?”

Will’s eyes went wide and dark and Kitty and Bill both snapped, “Jack!”

“Are you a pirate?” Will said suddenly.

Jack had a sudden moment of amnesia regarding Bill’s position on the subject where his offspring was concerned; was saved from open-mouthed stupidity by Bill jumping in and saying firmly that Jack was _not_ a pirate, Jack was a merchant seaman like himself, and pirates were to be avoided.

“Yes,” said Jack. “Exactly. What your dad said. Pirates: bad.” He had to leave it at that, because he couldn’t think of a good reason why.

“You look like a pirate might look,” said Will, rather critically.

Jack gave a particularly wide grin, to make sure the whelp got a good view of all the gold teeth. He leaned forward to the child, as if he were divulging a great secret. “It’s a _disguise_ ,” he hissed. “In case someone recognises me as Jack Sparrow, the notorious merchant seaman.”

Kitty made a strangled noise. “Hadn’t you better be off?” Bill demanded crossly.

“Why yes, I had. See you in a week or so, then, mate?” Jack sheathed his sword and put on his hat. He held a hand down to Will. “A pleasure, Master Turner.”

“Yessir, a pleasure. What’s _notorious_?” said Will.

Jack laughed, and winked over his shoulder at the Turners. “Ask your da.”

At the door he embraced Bill, and gave Kitty a small bow in lieu of attempting any greater (and potentially more perilous) intimacies.

“Good luck, Jack.” Bill clapped him on the shoulder. “You know where I am if you need me. An’ for God’s sake take care; don’t go running off on any hare-brained schemes with Shaftoe, eh?”

“Hare-brained? Me?”

“Just be _sensible_ , alright?”

Bill stood at the door, waving, with that familiar frown of concern on his face; he watched Jack until the street corner hid him from sight.

Jack felt like a child escaping from its nursemaid. He whistled as he strode off, and not even the sleety rain, not even the half-melted snow seeping into his boots, not even the stenchful enormity of the pile of dogshit he walked through, could mar his glorious sense of freedom.


	8. European Physick, Chapter Eight

  
  
"If I am to do it," insisted Will, not for the first time, "then so must _he_."

Djagdao scowled at the Warao. "Some peoples," he said, "some tribes, have no ... no ..." A hurried conference with John Burton. "No shame. No pride."

Will bristled. "And some are hobbled by their pride! Or perhaps, perhaps they are ashamed --"

"That's enough!" cried Jack Shaftoe, stepping forward, hands up to prevent the two Indians -- nah, mustn't call 'em that, must give 'em their proper names, Warao and Chibcha -- from going for one another's throats. Though, come to think of it, there'd probably be a pretty penny in that. But if Will was hurt, Jamie Martingale'd want vengeance: and though Burton didn't seem as attached to Djagdao, Jack'd hazard a guess that that was just another manifestation of his calm, steady nature. He'd be fierce enough if anything happened to his mate.

"Now, boys," said Jack, mustering his most conciliatory tone. "'Twas only a _notion_ we had, to find ourselves sufficient cash to cover the gap between _investment_ and _return_. Like, like paying money to fit out a ship, and then waiting for the work to be done before you go a-pirating."

"I still do not see why _he_ should not do this thing, if I will," muttered Will.

"Well, it's true we'd make twice as much money from _two_ of you," said Jack. Best not to wonder out loud whether even greater profits might return from matching the two of them in a fight. "But sure, there'll be enough income from Will to feed us all, though we'll have to share a chamber."

Martingale, frowning, caught his eye, and Jack wondered if he hadn't been a little too disingenuous, suggesting that he and Sparrow'd settle for bunking down with the rest of them. But if Martingale suspected Jack's methods or motives, he said nothing of it.

"Tell me again," said Djagdao heavily, "what it is that you wish us to do."

"Well," said Jack, "as Mr Martingale, here, so rightly points out, your average Londoner, your man or woman on the street, will pay good money to see a marvel, whether it's a scrap of the True Cross -- no, never mind -- or a monstrous Eel (like the one in that pie, Will, eh?) or, or a madman, or a bearded lady, or a mermaid. And yes, sir, I'm quite aware that you are none of these things, and no, I am certainly not suggesting that you or Will, here, might pretend to any such thing. But you'll have noticed that wherever you go, folk stare at you, eh? They think you're a marvel. They've never seen anything like the two of you."

Jack suspected this to be an exaggeration -- he himself had seen a Neeger prince with painted skin, one summer at Smithfield -- but the Mobb's memory was short, and neither Burton nor Martingale -- still in a state of perpetual excitement at being in _England_ , let alone London -- seemed likely to contradict him.

"What must we do?" said Djagdao. Burton squeezed his shoulder and grinned at him, and he smiled back, looking more cheerful than Jack'd seen him since they'd sighted the rocky coast of Devon.

"Well," said Jack, who hadn't thought this far ahead, "we need to make you look as wild, as strange, as _exotic_ as we can."

He glanced around, hoping for inspiration. The room he'd shared with Jack Sparrow was small and bare, devoid of any accoutrement that might help create a tableau like the one in Jack's mind. They'd need some form of costume, though perhaps not the leafy kilts that half the locals'd worn, back in Guyana: silks or skins or painted leather might do it: or, wait ...

"Will," he said, "I don't s'pose you've still got that scrap o' gold?" And he gestured at his own chest.

Will looked doubtful, but Martingale grinned sharp and wicked, and pulled him close, and murmured in his ear.

"I have," said Will calmly. "That and more. As you know," fixing Jack with a hard stare.

Jack had been trying not to think about 'more', but it was bloody difficult with Will _inciting_ him like that: and he couldn't help it, really he couldn't, if his downward glance was as good as a pointing finger to Djagdao and Burton.

"I don't expect there'll be any need for _that_ ," he said. "But come on, mate: come an' stand by the fire and let's have a look at you, eh?"

* * *

There was a spring in Jack Sparrow's step, and not even the market-day crowds in Greenwich could dampen it. Dear Lord, who'd settle on land? Ghastly place, full of mud and dogs and people. Though this bunch, at least, didn't seem as intrusively _curious_ as the brats down at the quayside. Jack had become accustomed to attracting attention -- his evident wealth, and his carefree demeanour, were clearly fascinating to sensation-starved Londoners, and he'd lay they craved colour and shine after a hard winter -- and for a moment, faced with such disinterest, he faltered, wondering if he'd lost something, some essential element of his ensemble; but his hat was firmly on his head, his greatcoat still unbuttoned just enough to reveal bright silks beneath, and the gold in his hair and his ears (hah, let Swift Bloody Nick get his hands on _that_!) was a reassuring weight, though the dim English sun wasn't doing much to burnish it. Or perhaps --

The clot of pedestrians seemed transfixed, like onlookers at an execution: peering up, stiff-necked, to where -- despite the filthy weather -- a window had been left ajar. An inn, it was: nay, not just any inn but, judging by the painted sign that creaked above the alley, the Spanish Galleon where they'd dined and slept last night. Jack'd come at it a roundabout way (curse these mud-spattered, shit-strewn, characterless streets), or he'd have known it at once.

So what were they all looking at? Jack glanced up.

_Fuck_.

That naked skin was duskier than any native of this benighted country'd any right to be, and the long black hair that fell over the broad shoulders brought Martingale's mate Will inescapably to mind. But what was Will doing, stripping off (the very thought made Jack shiver) in the room where Jack'd left Jack Shaftoe, naked, such a short while ago? A room with an _open window_?

And wasn't that Jack Shaftoe there with him, standing close -- far too close, really -- to Will, setting his hand on the man's bare shoulder, smiling and saying something that Jack couldn't hear because of the rush of blood in his ears?

No bloody wonder everyone in Greenwich'd come to gawp at their window! Jack had no time for them. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he shoved his way through the little crowd, irrupting into the common-room of the inn and making for the stairs. He glanced around: no sign of Martingale, or Burton, or Djagdao. Probably upstairs committing indecencies with Mr Jack Shaftoe. Jack took the stairs two at a time, not caring that his shipmates would not only hear his approach, but likely take him for an entire regiment of over-fed Frenchmen.

"So this is your notion of showing the boys London, is it?" he snapped, throwing wide the door.

Shaftoe, perfidious sod, glanced up and smiled at Jack. He was standing right next to Will: Martingale was just sitting there, arms wrapped round himself, apparently without the wit to close the bloody window. Burton and Djagdao were sitting on the bed (that very bed, Jack could not help but remember, where he and Mr Bloody Shaftoe had transported one another so deliciously, not twelve hours before). All their attention was on Will, stripped to the waist and clutching rather defensively at the waist-band of his trowsers: neither man spared more than a nod for their captain.

"Quite the opposite, actually," said Jack Shaftoe, grinning. "Giving London a bit of a tease, we are." And he winked.

"A tease?" said Jack. "A tease for what? And why d'you need to give poor Will the ague while you're at it?"

Poor Will shivered obligingly, and grabbed at his shirt, but Shaftoe twitched it back out of his reach.

"Mr Martingale, here," said Shaftoe, "has hatched a very clever scheme."

"What's that, then?" said Jack, making his way across the room to close the window. "Off with you all!" he yelled at the crowd below, who jeered and mocked. Jack pulled the window shut just in time for some rotting vegetable to splatter on the glass, rather than upon his person.

"What delightful customs the natives have, here," said Jack thinly. He swayed close to Will, eyeing the gold in the man's dark, cold-peaked nipple. Must ask him how much it hurt, one of these days: though maybe not in company.

"Well," said Shaftoe, "given how keen your bloke in the street is for any raree-show -- and inspired, I'd have to say, by a rather fetching mermaid currently resident at the Drum, just round the corner -- we reckoned we could make as much as ten pounds a day, showing a Painted Savage or two."

Jack looked Will up and down. Will stared back, unsmiling. It was impossible to tell whether he was blushing or not: the side of him turned t'wards the fire was no more flushed than the rest of him.

"I'm frightfully sorry to break it to you," said Jack, "but this here ... 'savage' ... ain't the painted sort."

* * *

Jack Shaftoe rolled his eyes. "Aye," he said. "We'd spotted that."

"Reckon _I've_ more ink-work than Will, here," pursued Jack Sparrow, running his fingers affectionately over his well-hidden collarbone.

"Brilliant!" cried Jack. "Why, Captain Sparrow, we'll exhibit you instead, eh?"

Martingale made a stifled, snorting noise. Sparrow ignored him, and glared at Jack (sending a delightfully promissory frisson through Jack's whole corpus). "I trust you're not calling me a savage, Mr Shaftoe?"

Jack said nothing, but only raised an eyebrow. The idea of Jack Sparrow, undressing slowly before an enraptured crowd -- perhaps not in _quite_ the same sinuous, provocative manner as he stripped, now and then, for an audience of Jack -- was powerfully intriguing.

Djagdao nudged Burton, and muttered something: Burton, reddening, said, "P'rhaps ... that is, Captain, couldn't we, could we _paint_ him?"

"Why, mate, you offering?" said Jack. Will tugged at his shirt again, and Jack let him have it: he wasn't altogether reassured by Sparrow's interest in the Warao's naked, muscular torso. Good thing he hadn't been able to persuade Will to reveal his _other_ Attractions, really. On the other hand, they could charge extra for that. No Ladies Admitted. (Jack, though he could not read, was well-acquainted with the conventions of handbill advertising.)

"In my country," said Djagdao, looking around at them all, "we paint, when a man is young."

"You never said you were painted!" said Jack to Burton.

Burton was shaking his head, and Djagdao cast Jack a sneering look. "Not to stay," he said. "Just paint." And described, in dumb-show, the acts of painting and of washing off.

"It might work," said Jack to Sparrow. "Quicker'n getting all that inkwork done, and waiting for it to mend. Er, assuming that Will _wanted_ any o' that, of course."

Will was shaking his head: but Jamie Martingale leant forward and said earnestly, "I reckon you'd look fine, mate, all painted and coloured like a book." He licked his lips, and smiled that innocent, hopeful smile at his friend.

"I will paint you," said Djagdao directly to Will, head bowed, "if you wish." His tone was as solemn -- and as civil -- as Jack'd ever heard it.

"I am not Chibcha," said Will, turning his back on the rest of them. He stared out at the grey English sky. Faintly, from below, Jack heard a cheer. The set of Will's shoulders showed that he'd heard it, too.

"Here there is no Chibcha," said Djagdao. "Here there is no Warao." He stood, and went to Will's side. "Here is only English, and us."

"You paint me," said Will. "And I paint you."


	9. European Physick, Chapter Nine

  


“You can’t use that for the headline,” Jack Shaftoe said disparagingly. “Your average Londoner, Jack, ain’t going to know Guyana from a banana. It don’t mean a thing.”

“Which will surely add an allure of the unknown,” said Jack, hiding his irritation beneath a rather patronising smile, and underlining the word yet again. He wished (very fleetingly) that he’d sent Shaftoe out with Burton, to find them a venue for this little venture of theirs; or with Jamie Martingale, in search of suitable ink. The Indians, squabbling over some tribal nonsense that Jack couldn’t be bothered with—authenticity was really not the issue at hand—had been banished to Burton’s room.

He bent back to the handbill draft, and wrote _One night only in Greenwich—then on to the heart of London!_

“What’s that say?” Shaftoe demanded, leaning over Jack’s shoulder.

“I was just changing that Guyana bit for you, Jack-my-love.”

“What’d you change it to?”

“What’d you want it changed to?”

“I was thinking something like _The uttermost corners of the New World_.”

“Yup, that’s the one, that’s what it says.”

“Bloody liar,” growled Jack Shaftoe, very close to Jack’s ear, and then with a rush of cold air he was gone; Jack turned, and Shaftoe was pulling the counterpane from the bed, throwing it down on the threadbare rug in front of the blazing hearth, and then stretching himself out upon it. Jack watched him with undisguised interest, admiration, and cupidity.

“What’re you doing, Jack?” he asked sweetly.

Shaftoe gave an innocent shrug. “Well, being an unlettered fellow, I’m clearly of little use to you in this undertaking; so I thought I might as well be comfortable, and this is, without a doubt, the warmest and most comfortable spot in the room.”

“Is it?”

“Mmmm,” said Shaftoe, and unwound his once-white neckerchief. “Toasty.” He undid the ties of his shirt, and tugged it open rather further than the fire’s ferocity warranted; sparse gold hairs shimmered in the flamelight. “Pity you’re so busy there still, Jack; you’d like it down here.”

Jack let his pen fall from his fingers, blots be damn’d, and slid down from his chair, for the pleasure of crawling across the floor to where Jack Shaftoe lay, his hands behind his head, his red tongue darting out to wet his lips. Jack crawled over him, hung above him, close enough to the fire that one half of his body burned deliciously.

“Mr Shaftoe,” he murmured, “are you inciting me?”

“Apparently,” said Shaftoe rather smugly.

“You’re insatiable, you are. It’s a medical condition, or so I’ve heard tell.” Jack bent down till his face was in the crook of Shaftoe’s neck, not touching, just breathing in the smell of the man.

“Only one cure for it,” murmured Shaftoe, sliding his hands up under Jack’s coat, over his ribs.

“Cure? Oh, aye, I’ve a cure: in that chest over there, mate, a tea of sorts.”

Shaftoe huffed, and tugged Jack down. (Jack resisted, more for the fun of it than anything else.) “That surely ain’t the cure I was thinking of, Jack. Christ, that was foul. D’you remember just how bad that was? Lookin’ at you, and knowing that once, the sight of you’d turned me hard as oak”—he caught up Jack’s hand, and tugged it downwards to illustrate the concept; Jack hummed his agreement—“and yet feelin’ nothing at all?”

Oh, Jack could remember it all right; but it was like a half-grasped dream, visible from the corner of the mind’s eye, but making no sense at all. He knew how real it’d been at the time, recalled all those provocations they’d put one another through, to test its efficacy. He was certain that for nights on end they’d lain chaste beside one another, sleeping sound and disinterested: but he had no idea, none, how it could’ve been his reality even for a day. “Don’t seem possible,” he said simply, and he licked along the line of Jack Shaftoe’s collarbone, and pressed his palm down, smooth and hard, over the hidden solidity of the good gentleman’s yard. “But I remember. Vile. Could be a hard sell, I reckon.”

“Bollocks. It’s better than a mercury cure, ain’t it?”

“True enough; particularly since it actually works,” Jack agreed. “But we must get on with it, Jack: after tomorrow, no more dallying and delay, we’ve got to get into the city and make some contacts.”

“I know, I know, calm down; an’ don’t worry, it’ll be a piece of cake. I know just the ladies.”

“What ladies?”

“The ladies,” said Shaftoe with a grin, “who know all the gentlemen, Jack.”

“And how d’you know _them?_ ” demanded Jack, pouting; Shaftoe laughed, and slapped him on the arse.

“Jealous, mate?”

“Jealous, of a girl? Never.” Jack lowered himself down to lie along the whole warm length of Jack Shaftoe, and wriggled his hips. “What wench can offer you that?”

Shaftoe gave him an incendiary look, and pulled him down for a kiss. Jack caught his breath at the delight of it, the careful certainty with which Shaftoe’s tongue came searching into his mouth. Tempting, oh so tempting. But! Jack gave in to a small urge to bite, and used Jack Shaftoe’s moment of irritable complaint to jump up and return to the table.

“What was that for?” Shaftoe sounded so plaintive, so bereft. Jack blew him an apologetic kiss.

“Can’t get distracted now, mate. Got to get this to the print-shop, eh?” He scribbled a few more lines—that’d do, surely—and, shaking it dry, went to the window and peered outside. “Dammit, Jack, is that _snow_?”

Jack Shaftoe came up behind Jack, and wound his arms around him. “I’ll take it,” he muttered. “You stay here, keep the fire stoked.”

This offer was far too tempting to even consider polite refusal. “I sh’d be eternally grateful,” Jack said, only exaggerating a little: and Jack Shaftoe took the paper from his fingers, and said, with a wink and a grin, “I shan’t ask f’r eternity, mate, but I tell you what, a little gratitude when I get back might go a long way.”

*

You could say a lot of things about Jack Sparrow (and Jack Shaftoe frequently did): you could indict him on a variety of lunacies, taunt him for his idiosyncratic vanity, deride the unnatural attachment he had to his ship. But you could never, ever, accuse him of lacking imagination.

Jack’d never thought himself a particularly unimaginative fellow. But some days, faced with the flights of phant’sy that soared through Jack Sparrow’s mind, he entertained a fear that he might have an element of stolidity in his person that he had previously only associated with his brother Bob.

Now, for example. Jack’d battled his way back from the print-shop in growing dark and swirling snow; had stopped in the common-room, contemplating a brief warming ale, and been intercepted by Jamie Martingale, with a mischievous look on his elfish face, claiming that Sparrow needed him upstairs. This was a good sort of a message to receive, and Jack (anticipating gratitude of the most ravenously carnal sort) had paused only to inveigle two pork pies out of mine host before taking the stairs three at a time and flinging open the door, head filled with visions of Jack Sparrow, bare and lithe and waiting in a nest of counterpane and furs and silks before the fire.

And was presented with… with _this_. Jack Sparrow standing at the window, still dressed, despite the warmth of the room, and grinning over at Jack with a… was that a _paintbrush_ between his teeth?

Jack attempted to hide his disappointment. “Pie?” he said, rather wanly, holding one out.

Sparrow removed the paintbrush and smiled wider. There was an excitable light in his eye. “Why, thank you, Jack; I sh’ll save it for later. I’ve something else I want to do first, an it please you.” He glanced down at the hearth, and Jack saw three little pots sitting there beside the fire.

“What’s that?” he demanded, though he suspected he knew. There were swirly, inky lines over the back of Jack Sparrow’s left hand, and a green smear on his cheek.

“Mr Martingale outdid himself wi’ the ink, Jack. The savages say they’ve no use for these colours. Very particular, they are.” Sparrow swayed closer, and pushed Jack’s damp coat back from his shoulders. “But me, Jack: I think these colours could be quite glorious, put to the right use… on the right canvas.” He bit down on the handle of the paintbrush again, and—hands freed—took off Jack’s coat, and pulled off his cap.

Jack submitted to being undressed, because it could only ever be a good thing to be bared by Jack Sparrow, but he was quite bemused by this idea. “You want to paint _me_?” he demanded, putting his pork pie up on the mantelpiece. “Why, Jack? It’ll only make a mess.”

Sparrow, kneeling before him and tugging off his boots, looked up, with a wide, flashing smile. “Firstly, Jack, because making a mess of you is one of the things I do best in life, wouldn’t you say? And secondly, darlin’, you should trust me. It’ll look superb, an’ it’ll feel better.”

“It will?” said Jack doubtfully, stepping out of his breeches, and humming as Jack Sparrow’s warm breath on his groin sent a surge of blood southwards.

Sparrow set his lips to the scar at Jack’s hip, where he’d borne the guaiacum, and rolled his thumb over its twin. “Oh, it will.”

*

He laid Jack Shaftoe out on the counterpane, in front of the fire, on his belly; stood behind him for a moment, admiring the way the muscles of Shaftoe’s back spread wide as he tucked his hands under his chin, adoring the rounded line of his backside, the muscled curves of his legs. A work of art all by himself, Jack Shaftoe was, and for a moment Jack was loath to mar it. But only for a moment.

He shucked off his own clothes, and threw another log on the fire. Straddling Shaftoe’s hips, he knelt, and Shaftoe hummed and wriggled as Jack’s cock settled and swelled in the warm valley of Shaftoe’s arse.

“Be still,” Jack reproved, and he pushed Shaftoe’s hair off to one side, clearing his back.

“What’re you going to do?”

“Whatever I want,” said Jack, and illustrated that claim with a chain of gentle, sucking kisses to the nape of Shaftoe’s neck, and the top of his spine. Shaftoe sighed gratifyingly and arched, and Jack could not help rocking back and forth, just a little, rubbing himself against that smooth warm skin, the head of his yard pressing deliciously against Shaftoe’s tailbone.

He took up the first pot of ink, warm from the fire, and his brush; dipped it, and made a long stroke across Jack Shaftoe’s right shoulder, terminating in a delicate flick over the muscle of his upper arm. The ink, darkest blue, dried and took fast. Jack Shaftoe shivered. “’S’nice,” he mumbled, and Jack smiled a secret smile to himself.

_Don’t think, Jack: just do._

Jack concentrated, focussed on the lines. The brush, the shape, the motion. Fast and long and sweeping, he drew in the outlines; smeared and feathered the edges with his fingertip. Shaftoe lay still, quiet, humming under his breath when brush or finger touched a particularly tantalising spot. Jack switched to green, added pale highlights; the purple next, so dark it was nearly black, adding shadow and detail.

The room grew dark as he worked, the dimming light transmuting all the colours to their deepest shades; he switched to a smaller brush (God bless Jamie Martingale’s thorough nature!) and shuffled backwards down Jack Shaftoe’s legs, propping himself on his elbow. Finer work, here; more detail, just at the base of Shaftoe’s spine.

Done: and Jack gave in to his urges, and licked a long line up the warm, firm cleft of Jack Shaftoe’s delicious arse. Shaftoe squirmed, but Jack thought he liked it.

“Are you done?” A languorous murmur; Jack Shaftoe was lulled into a beautiful concupiscent state, as intended.

“Not nearly,” said Jack, “but I’ve finished painting. Stand up,” he demanded, doing the same himself; and Shaftoe did, turned to Jack, reached for him, his yard standing out dark and greedy, his eyes all sleepy with desire.

“No, no—turn around, I want to see, I want—” Jack put his hands to Shaftoe’s hips and turned him, made him lean his hands up over the mantle. He stepped back, and back again, head to one side, critical; and did not know which to admire more, the glorious strong shape of Jack Shaftoe or the wings that sprang inky from between his shoulderblades, swooping out and down, their tips touching the swell of his buttocks. He ran a finger over the words that curled down low, impressed by his penmanship and unconcerned as to whether his Latin was grammatically correct: _Angelus meus_ , it read, and the sentiment was as correct as could be.

“Oh, Jack,” he said, foolishly, stroking his own cock and shivery with aesthetic delight. “Oh, Christ, Jack, will you fuck me now?”

*

Jack Shaftoe did not know what his love’s cunning hands had wrought on his skin. It did not matter: all that mattered was that Jack Sparrow’s hands were reaching round to Jack’s prick as he knelt behind Jack, his mouth was a devilish wicked heat pressing in such a secret place and his tongue, Jesus, his tongue—Jack’s head flashed full of depraved visions of being seen this way, of Swift Nick Nevison creeping into their room, of standing in front of the cold open window with the street full of upturned faces, of freak-shows and clamouring audiences, of all of London shocked and salacious, watching Jack Shaftoe offer up his arse to the mouth of this beautiful lustful pirate.

Watching Jack Shaftoe turn on that man with a desperate groan, and kiss him hard and deep, tasting his own musk and sweat; watching Jack Shaftoe spread that man out beneath him, on elbows and knees, and lick him the same, shameless and animal. Watching Jack Shaftoe push himself, tongue fingers throbbing cock, into the dark hidden places of another man’s body, over and over and over as Jack Sparrow cried out and Jack did not silence him. Watching as Jack Sparrow bucked and swore and sobbed and his face twisted up in the most divine agony; as he shook and shuddered and spilt and smiled, and whispered, _Oh Jack, my Jack, you fuck like an angel._  



	10. European Physick, Chapter Ten

  
  
The room that Djagdao and Burton were sharing, a box of a room with a small high window and an ill-fitting door, was warm as summer from the fire in the grate. Will, though, would not strip while Djagdao stood clothed: and from the Chibcha's glare, he felt the same. Though of course he was wrong to think himself the better man. Will set his teeth, and scowled, and said -- not in English, but in the common language of river-traders, in case any of their shipmates might be listening and because the words came more easily to his tongue -- "If we are to do this, we must be as brothers."

"I am no brother to you!"

"Nor I to you," snapped Will. "But you said before, there is no Warao here. No Chibcha. Only them, the Englishmen, and we who are strangers."

Djagdao stared fiercely at the cobwebs in the corner of the room, illustrating his disdain for such kinship. But after the space of a slow breath, he set his hands to the fastenings of his clothes, and flicked a challenging glance at Will.

Will had seen the other man bared, and knew he had nothing to fear. The Chibcha had no gold, or no courage to wear it: his body was as plain and bland as a boy's. As an Englishman's. Will stripped off his shirt, and turned so that the firelight glinted from the gold ring in his nipple.

Djagdao was looking at it. That was good.

The Chibcha had removed his coat and shirt, and the scarves wrapped around his neck: he stood naked to the waist, his coppery skin tinged with cold, and folded his arms across his chest, watching Will unbutton his breeches.

"They will not see all of our skin," he said. "Only our upper parts."

Will's hands did not pause: the buttons were difficult, with his fingers chilled. "They mean us to wear what we wore in the forest," he said.

"What? Those garments are gone!" scoffed Djagdao. "And they said we were ... were ..." River-pidgin did not have a word for it. "'Rude'," said Djagdao in English.

Will snorted. "They did not tire of looking." His breeches were undone now: he kicked them away, making sure that Djagdao could see all of the gold that he wore. It made some men shy, and some men ardent. Will remembered Jamie Martingale's face, the first time he'd seen (and, before seeing, _felt_ ) the gold: he smirked.

"Is this how you Warao win your lovers?" said Djagdao, shucking his own breeches. The firelight gleamed on the smooth muscle of his flanks. "With gold, like a fish lured by an iron hook?"

"It is how we show our courage," said Will. "The men of the Chibcha, of course, do nothing."

"No," said Djagdao equably. "For we are all brave, and none of us would doubt another. Another of our tribe." A sly sidelong look. "Your Jamie must think you are very brave."

Will could not prevent the smile that stretched his mouth. "He admires me," he said.

"Will he admire you more, when you are painted?" said Djagdao: and he reached for the brushes that lay on the table beside the curtained window.

"If he does not," said Will, sudden and fierce, "you will hear of it."

Djagdao merely stared at him impassively. "Truly we are far from home," he said eventually, "for a Warao must trust a Chibcha, and a Chibcha a Warao, not to invite the laughter of the Englishmen."

It rankled, to have Djagdao speak as an equal, to speak of the two of them as though they were of the same rank, the same standing: yet Will bowed his head in agreement. He had seen nothing but good of this man, he told himself. And here -- far from home, as Djagdao had said, though the cold in Will's bones was a aching reminder of that distance -- it was hard to remember that he was foe.

"You shall paint me first," he said. "And I shall be the judge of it."

* * *

"Here," said Djagdao, drawing a long line of black across the ripple of Will's ribcage, "is Chibchacum, who rules over labour and merchants. For here we are selling ourselves, the sight of ourselves, like a man selling bright feathers or ... or fine skins." A gobbet of paint dripped from the end of his brush, and he smeared it into Will's skin, spreading and shading it like the breath of a god. "Chibchacum will guard us from cheats."

"Jacksparrow and Jackshaftoe will guard us from cheats," said Will sternly, his voice muffled against the table-top.

"Be quiet," said Djagdao, taking up the brush again. "When you speak, your skin moves, and my brush loses its way."

"Only a Chibcha could become lost on an empty plain," muttered Will.

"Quiet," said Djagdao more sharply, and he drew the brush as lightly as he could across the hollow beneath Will's ribcage, leaving a fine black line and a shiver of muscle. "Here is Bochicha, fierce and powerful." He swept the brush up and over Will's shoulder. "Turn."

He would not look at the gold. The simple ring in the man's chest was one matter: Djagdao's brush made it an ornament, an earring, for a leering god. The gold that pierced Will's yard through and through -- the skin around it, where Djagdao could not help but glance, healed and glossy with scar, though Will was not an old man -- disturbed him. His father had told him that the Warao were unnatural folk, with strange practices and dark rituals. The proof of it twitched and breathed before him. Will's face was still as stone, no matter what Djagdao did with his brush, no matter if it tickled or tormented him. He lifted one leg, and then the other, as Djagdao drew long, barbed patterns round each limb, the glistening thorns daubed with colour like some savage vine.

Djagdao spat on the brush to clean it, and worked savage zig-zags up and down Will's arms, black and red, with the amber eyes of snakes and sharp teeth dripping blood. "These are your guardians," he said. "I hope Jamie will not be afraid of them."

Will smiled. His teeth were very white in the dim room. "If he is afraid," he said, "I shall find a way to keep him from screaming." And he glanced down at his own groin, where the buttery gold gleamed with firelight.

Djagdao did not wish to think of that organ erect, or of how it might feel to another. "Here," he said curtly. "I know the goddess who will watch over you in this company. Lie still, and I shall paint her likeness here."

"A goddess?" said Will suspiciously. "She will unman me."

Djagdao snorted. "How can she unman you, when you have fastened your manhood to your body so well?"

Will laughed aloud at that, and Djagdao felt a peculiar thrill: between amusement and excitement, the yellow paint on his brush smeared across Will's navel and trickled down the middle of his belly, t'wards that ornamented member. The pigment seemed dull, against the gold.

"You need not paint me there!" said Will, narrow-eyed with mirth.

"No," said Djagdao. "The paint would wear away." Then, abruptly (for he had seen Will's yard twitch, and wanted to unravel the last minute between them, undo it and paint it with a more sober hand), "Be still, and I shall give you Huitaca."

"Your goddess?" said Will, quiescent again under the brush. "What is her power, her domain?"

"She is the queen of misrule," said Djagdao, cold and calm as he drew each curving tooth. "Of drunkenness and misbehaviour and all that is awry. And she watches over us both, in this company we keep."

* * *

The paint on his skin itched and split as it dried, and Will thought it would crackle like the skin of a roast pig when it fell away from him. Surely one touch of Jamie's hand would sweep it all away like a map drawn in the sand. But he must not think of Jamie's touch, for here was Djagdao, old enemy and new friend, beneath the brush, and Will the master of him for now.

He had not missed the flicker of heat in the Chibcha's eyes. Had not missed the answered swell of his own flesh, or the way that his blood had rushed and risen, just like a boy's blood in the dark of the shaman's hut when the new warriors were made. Yet the gentle torture of paint and bristle was a different kind of ritual, and his breath was as calm, his mind as steady, as when this strange rite of transformation -- Warao to Chibcha, Chibcha to Warao -- had begun.

"Our gods are not your gods," he said softly to Djagdao. "Yet they are neighbours. They live close by the other. They know each other's names."

"When we sleep," said Djagdao, "they will creep from my skin to yours, to visit."

Will would not think of Djagdao curled up in a warm bed with the man Burton, dark skin against pale skin, the solid muscles of their bodies pressing together. "They will not find their way so far," he said. A long, lazy spiral of red. "Here is Ogun, who watches over warriors. It is an honour, to carry his likeness on your skin. ... Give me your chest, now."

"Then I am honoured," murmured Djagdao, turning over. He did not flinch as Will used his fingers to spread and swirl the paint. His skin was warm and firm, like Jamie's and yet oddly smoother. Will dipped his forefinger into the pot of yellow paint, and pressed it firmly against Djagdao's chest, above his heart. Pressed harder, to feel the steady heartbeat unchanging beneath the flesh.

Djagdao stared up at him steadily. Will could not read his gaze, and the sudden familiarity of that black opacity -- after weeks of Jamie Martingale's transparent green eyes, every thought clear (if not always comprehensible) in his look -- made Will think of how far they had come, he and Djagdao, from the day they had met: from the lands they had known.

"I came across the sea because I would have been cast out, or slain," said Will softly, leaning down. "Why did you come, Chibcha man?"

"I came to follow my friend, John Burton," said Djagdao simply. "He is a good man."

"There are many good men," noted Will. The paint was drying on the brush. "Is Johnburton the first you have met, to follow him so?"

"He ... he interests me," said Djagdao. It was the word a man, trading, would use for something strange and novel, something he had not seen before. "And I am in England now, where everything is new to me."

"And you -- and I -- to everyone," said Will. "We are like the jaguar, like the great serpent from the heart of the forest: rare, and prized for our rarity. For our hides, and our fangs, and the greatness of our hearts." He drew back, away from Djagdao: he could feel the heat of Djagdao's painted skin and, beneath it, brains and entrails and beating human heart. That sense of closeness made him want more, and other, and things that he should not want. Djagdao was his friend, perhaps, now: his friend, but not his foe, not his lover, not a stranger to be slain.

Will dipped his brush into the black paint again. "This god," he said, as he drew a long black curve from Djagdao's throat to his navel, "is Abore. Abore is the lord of invention. He is the lord of cleverness and cunning, of the hunter in the night, of the man who lays a trap and waits. He, _he_ is the one who will watch over us, you and I: who will give us the wit to save our skins."

"And now," said Djagdao, "we have skins worth saving." And he stared down at his chest, at the ornate lines and curves and curlicues of Will's paintwork: and smiled at what he saw.


	11. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Eleven

  


The sun, or what passed for it in these parts, had come out; and Jamie—turning his face up to its pale rays and closing his eyes, imagining that it was the sweet Caribbean sun that he missed so much—decided to take that as a good omen. A sign that someone was looking down kindly on their enterprise. Who that someone might be, he didn’t know. He doubted it was the God that he’d met in his mother’s church. One of Will’s gods, perhaps; for Will was surely covered in enough pictures of ‘em to attract their attention.

“Oi, Jamie! Wake up!” John Burton called, from his position on the other side of the street. Jamie sucked in a cold breath of air and opened his eyes. “Aye, John, aye! I’m here, I’m working!”

“Workin’, darlin’? You better bloody not be!”

Jamie spun round, and there stood a tiny, angry woman, hands on her scarlet-clad hips and a scowl on her face. Her very _painted_ face, whose three black patches (a star and two hearts) stood out in sharp relief on her whitely powdered skin. Two other girls came up behind her, dressed the same, blatant in their bright gowns and tatty gauds.

“This, lovely,” Jamie was advised, “is our corner; you want to go down Daisy Alley, you do, down by the steps.”

Jamie laughed and shook his head. He held out a handbill. “No, ladies, no; we’re not in competition, you and I.”

The lightskirt took his proffered bill, and peered at it; then looked sideways up at Jamie. “You sure we ain’t? ‘Cos darlin’, a face like yours… well, I know a few blokes as’d fill your pockets.”

“That ain’t all they’d fill, Sukie!” Her friends’ laughter spangled in the cold air, and Sukie snorted in an unladylike manner. Jamie flushed and grinned, refusing to be disconcerted by their taunting.

Sukie waved the bill at him. “Go on, then, pretty; wotsit say? An’ why should we be interested?”

“Oh, it’s a show like none you’ve ever seen, ladies—we’ve but lately arrived from the West Indies, and brought with us the most savage Indians, all painted an’ jewelled!”

“Izzat so? Darlin’, we weren’t born yesterday; it’s prob’ly your little brother, all daubed in soot.”

“No, no, no.” Jamie gave them a sidelong glance, and a secretive smile. “I was there, ladies, in the forests of Guyana—”

“Where?”

“Guyana, south of New Spain, ‘cross the wide Atlantic. See, it says it here: _The Uttermost Corners of the New World_.” (Captain’d cuffed Jack Shaftoe when he saw that, but Jamie thought it had a fine ring to it.) “I was there, part of a pirate crew, in search of the True Cure for the French disease, and met these Indians in the jungle, where they—”

“Cure? What cure? There ain’t no cure.”

Jamie bit his lip. He knew Jack Shaftoe had his own plans for selling their wares. But what would be the harm in testing the waters? “There’s a cure alright, an’ I’ve seen that, too,” he said. “Seen my Captain cured; an’ you can see him for yourselves, see the Indians for yourselves, if you’ve sixpence to spare.”

“ _Sixpence?_ ” she cried in horror. “That’s bloody robbery, that is! You’ve got a cheek!”

Jamie gave her a sly look from under his eyelashes. “You’ll get your money’s worth, ladies, I ‘ssure you. Them savages are a wonderful thing. You ain’t never seen such men.”

Gales of laughter. “I wouldn’t bet on it, love, we’ve seen a terrible quantity of the creatures,” said the girl in pink.

“This one’s worth seein’. Me, I cain’t stop lookin’ at him. At his warm brown skin or his wild black hair; at the great strong length of his legs, ladies, or the great strong length of his… other parts.”

Sukie looked mildly shocked for a moment, and then slapped him on the arm, displaying some nastily blackened teeth as she laughed. “You’re a one, ain’t you?”

“Say you’ll come,” said Jamie with his sweetest smile, not denying the accusation, “An’ you can see for yourself. Show starts on the hour, in the back room of the Fig an’ Firkin.”

“Show, eh? Are you in this _show_ , darlin’?”

Jamie just grinned. “Fig an’ Firkin, on the hour.”

*

It was a good crowd, alright; ‘tween them, Jamie reckoned he and John’d handed out two hundred bills, and there were at least sixty people already crammed into the long, low-ceilinged room they’d hired. He stood by the door, taking the money and ushering them in, trying not to get distracted onto the math of it. This, and another show tonight, less the publican’s cut… oh, one way or another he was going to get a good bed and some fine food!

Him, and Will. Will who looked so stony-faced in public, and yet, alone with Jamie, was a bottomless pool of affection, warmth and a deliciously savage lust. And all painted up as he was now… oh, Christ, Jamie’d watched the two of them start it, this morning, all solemn and bare; but he’d had to leave and get on with his own tasks, and he was longing, _longing_ , to see the end result of it. To strip Will down and see the whole wild beauty of him, with his gold and his paint and his white-toothed smile.

Jamie shivered.

“Here, darlin’, are we late?”

It was Sukie and her friends. She tried for a discount. “Sixpence,” Jamie said firmly, and she pouted and paid up.

Jack Shaftoe had told them not to worry ‘bout turning people away—t’would only make ‘em keener, he said—so when the room was nicely full, he and John blocked the door, and told the half-dozen still waiting that they’d have to come back tonight.

Jack Sparrow’s voice came ringing out from behind the makeshift wings at the side of the small stage. “Ladies and Gentlemen of Greenwich! The crew of the mighty _Black Pearl_ , lately come to these shores by way of the New World, bring you now a spectacle to delight and edify, entertain and horrify!”

Jamie bounced on his toes, craning to see over the heads in front of him; found himself a good line of sight. And the show began.

*

Sparrow strode onto the stage, where lanthorns lined up along the floor and hung from the beam above him. There was a murmur in the crowd; Jack Sparrow, in full regalia, was near enough to entertain and horrify all by himself.

“In the deepest, darkest, wettest, most infested and pestilential jungles of Guyana,” Sparrow began, in a low and gravelly voice that demanded silence, “there live savage tribes of Indians. That ain’t what they call themselves: oh, these poor ignorant things don’t even know that’s what they are. They say they are _Chibcha_ , or _Warao_ ; and they live in huts woven of leaves and vines, run naked through the forests, and fight each other with poison darts. It was into this devilish place that I ventured, with my fearless crew; and this, ladies and gentlemen, is the tale of what befell my companion, the well-known adventurer Mr Jack Shaftoe, in those dark benighted lands.”

He stepped into the darkness at the left hand side of the stage; from the right came Jack Shaftoe, playing the adventurer, sword at his side, eyes lined dark as the Captain’s for his turn upon the stage. Jamie sighed in delight. Was there ever such a glorious fellow as that one?

Shaftoe stopped, and shaded his eyes, peering out over the audience as if presented with a marvellous vista; and as he stood there, admiringly, a shadow moved at the side of the stage.

The audience were all rapt attention: out crept Djagdao, wearing only a loincloth, and shocked murmurs ran round the room. The Indian was all painted up in swirls of red and yellow and black, and he bared his teeth in a nasty smile as he sighted Jack Shaftoe. Down the front, a little boy cried out in fright; a group of older children chorused _Behind you, behind you!_

Shaftoe-the-Adventurer noticed them, and smiled, and waved as though there was nothing in the world amiss; they shouted again, as Djagdao pulled out a rope garrotte and crept closer. Shaftoe put a hand to his ear, and said “Pardon?”—was it only Jamie as could hear a Spanish accent in the word, and laughed?—and then Djagdao pounced, uttering a feral cry, and caught him round the neck.

Jack Shaftoe’s eyes bulged, and the children shrieked, and the audience gasped in delighted horror as he fell to his knees and, in the delightfully inappropriate manner beloved of Actors the world over, began to Soliloquise despite his fearful situation.  
  
JACK: _This rude injun’s rope doth decorate my neck,_  
A garland speeding me to Heaven’s Gate.  
For, like the Necklace of Harmonia,  
It brings the one who wears it life eternal:  
But life eternal of the spirit, not  
The sweet survival of my weak’ning flesh.  
And, as I’ve made my peace with God Almighty,  
My spirit will ascend to Heaven’s Door,  
Where, after brief interrogation, Christ will—

Will stepped suddenly from the wings, and raised his blowpipe as the audience sucked in a breath at his ferocious appearance—Djagdao’s deities seemed to have a lot of _teeth_ —and they gasped again a moment later as a female voice (Jamie felt sure it was Sukie) cried, “Look at that gold, there, on him!” Jamie smirked, and wondered what they’d do if they knew the whole story.

Jack Shaftoe uttered a strangled cry, his eyes rolling in fear. Djagdao, mysteriously, appeared not to notice Will at all, being preoccupied with staring ferociously into the middle distance despite the fact that he was currently garrotting a man.

JACK: _HAWKKH! God’s Wounds! This noose quite strangleth me!_  
And is this now another means of execution?  
Yon savage has a wild and maddened eye  
Yet it's no worse, nor better than the first.  
How shall I pass? By loss of breath,  
Or by some vile arrow there be prick’d  
And die a death unfit for English blood?

Jack sobbed most touchingly, hands outstretched in supplication: Will regarded him for a long moment, and then turned to Djagdao and huffed a sudden breath through his pipe. Djagdao clutched at his neck, a white feather appearing between his knuckles. (Jack Sparrow had suggested an actual dart “for verisimilitude, darling”, but the proposal had been vetoed; Shaftoe had mocked his captain’s lack of stagecraft most cruelly.)

JACK: _What’s this? Beneath that savage chest,_  
Adornéd with such brutal jewellery,  
There beats a heart of human gentleness  
And love for fellow man, no matter hue.

Meanwhile, Djagdao fell to the floor and began writhing in an agonised and dramatickal manner, as choreographed in great detail by Jack Sparrow. He finally gasped and lay still, and Will removed the rope from Jack’s neck.

JACK: _You save my life, sir; and be ever sure_  
The gratitude I hold for you is true.  
I’ll take you e’en to Albion’s fair fields  
And show you there the wonders of our nation—  
If only you will clothe yourself. For English maids  
Could not abide the sight of you this way.

As anticipated, this provoked several ‘English maids’ to object, and advise the intrepid explorer that they could abide quite a bit of _that_ , mate.

WILL: _I thank you, gentle sir. For, in my lands,_  
Of England wondrous tales are told; and oft  
I’ve dreamt to see it. Now’s my chance!  
I’ll follow you, and serve you with my life.

The Audience were slack-jawed to hear the savage speak this piece of shamelessly jingoistic nonsense; Jamie was warm with pride. Jack Shaftoe stood over Djagdao, and poked him with a toe.

JACK: _He’s not quite dead: there’s life there yet._  
Shall we bring him too? I phant’sy there,  
In London Town, we’ll teach him civ’lised ways.  
For even such as he can find salvation  
In the loving arms of our enlightened nation.

And then, possessed by a spirit of extempore creativity, he added sotto voce and with a wicked grin:

_And if he don’t, why then we’ll show his skin  
And make a sort of entertainment for  
The_ mobile.

Exeunt Jack and Will, dragging Djagdao between them.

After a suitable pause to soak up the applause, Jack Sparrow reappeared, quieting the whistling and stamping with downturned palms.

“An’ that’s a true story,” he said solemnly. “But that ain’t all, ladies and gentlemen: these once savage men will now display for you their astonishing skills with the blowpipe, in an exhibition devoid of trickery or artifice. Is any among you brave enough to volunteer to assist in this demonstration?”

A clamour of hands: Jack Sparrow, always with an eye for an Aesthetic Tableau, selected a yellow-haired girl whose pinked cheeks and widened eyes would make a lovely contrast to the Indians. He stood her ‘gainst the wall, and bid her stand most still; then called forth his savages. Will and Djagdao took up their places at either end of the stage, and first one and then the other shot feathered darts at the edges of the girl’s skirts, pinning her against the wooden panelling. She shrieked in alarm, and Sparrow shouted, “ _Do not move_ , madam, or I cannot vouch for your safety!”

“Oh my Lord,” said someone in a quavery voice, and then the Indians let loose a barrage of darts, turn and turn about, inches away from her head, her shoulders, her arms, as the poor girl screwed her eyes shut and wailed things that no nice young lady should wail; and when Sparrow released the darts that held her fast, and half-carried her back to her seat, her silhouette remained against the wall, marked in a pale trail of feathery tufts.

Greenwich was suitably impressed.

*

“Will, you were brilliant!”

Jamie hugged his mate and tried not to linger on the image that he presented, dressed still in that loincloth but with the addition of coat and boots. Oh Lord, those legs! But they were all six of them crammed into the tiny room backstage, and this was no time for libidinous thoughts.

“They were afraid of us,” said Will, with a proud smile at Djagdao, which was returned.

“Terrified!” cried Jack Shaftoe, happily.

John began to empty his pockets, piling up the coin on the scratched table, and Jamie did the same; Sparrow’s quick fingers flicked them into piles, counting under his breath.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “it’ll be only the finest for us, in London Town.”

Jamie slipped his arm round Will’s waist, up under his coat, and squeezed. Will smiled at him, but Jack Shaftoe kicked him in the shin. “Don’t smudge the savage, Jamie; he’s got a public to terrify.”

Jamie laughed and let go. “But tonight…” he said.

“Aye, aye,” said Jack Shaftoe, and he shot a warm glance at his Captain, and said, “Tonight, I’d lay, there’ll be smudging a-plenty.”


	12. European Physick, Chapter Twelve

  
  
Never mind the brevity of his sojourn in the sunny Caribbean -- a realm for which Jack Shaftoe was already yearning, though its incarnation lolled beside him in the boat, tanned and glittery where not entirely concealed from view by swaddling layers of cloth and coat -- it hadn't taken long for him to forget the low, grey English sky, pressing in above him. Nor had he missed the miasma of sea-coal smoke, rotting wood and other less delightful odours that hung over the City of London like a tattered veil over the leering face of an especially wizened (nay, Pox-ridden) whore. His bones ached in the raw Spring weather, a sullen protest that was not quite countered by the lingering heat of Jack Sparrow's recent ardour.

" _Fucking_ weather," complained Jamie Martingale, pulling a villainous knitted cap down over his ears. "We nearly there yet, are we?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "No, mate," he said. "Look back where we've come, eh? You c'n still see Deptford Creek, where that Navy ship was. Miles to go yet. Still, once the tide turns we'll -- ow!" He rubbed his side, where Sparrow's bony elbow had jabbed him. "What was that for?"

"That, Mr Shaftoe, was for saying 'I told you so'," Sparrow informed him.

"I never --"

Sparrow tilted his hat back and let a layer of scarf fall away, revealing that wicked sharp smile. "Oh yes you did, Mr Shaftoe: but doubtless you'll make it up to me, eh?"

Jack grinned back. "Doubtless you'll apologise for _doubting_ me, Captain." He waved at the ominously brown water rushing past the gunwale, and grinned at the nearest sour-faced oarsman. "Dreadful strong tides, the Thames, as I seem to recall mentioning earlier, when you were so very keen to depart Greenwich before low water. The ebb tide down here'll carry you off easy as that," snapping his fingers.

P'rhaps it was the gesture, or the talk of carrying off, or a glimpse of some half-remembered inn, jetty, stair: but all of a sudden Jack -- never mind his determined amnesia of a minute before -- was plunged into the cold vicious river of memory: was squatting in the bottom of a longboat, shaking something cold and wet like a dog shaking its prey. Dick. Brother Dick, eldest and boldest and, on (and since) that occasion, deadest of the three Shaftoe boys -- though Jack and Bob'd had their share of near-drownings, irate watchmen, involuntary ingestions of river-water et cetera. Yep, thought Jack, glancing from left (Deptford Strand) to right (the homely, reeking hovels of the Isle of Dogs): this'd be just about where it'd happened, just about where Dick, unsuspecting, had gulped his last frantic breath of air.

Pity it'd been such an unwholesome lungful.

"What's amiss?" murmured Jack Sparrow, leaning close.

"Nothing," said Jack, nevertheless taking the opportunity to huddle closer to his love and steal some of that deliciously tropical warmth. "Just ... just cold."

"P'rhaps," said Sparrow, tongue darting out to swipe across his red lower lip, "we c'n ... warm one another, eh, Jack?"

Jack glanced at the rowers, but they were too busy heaving at the oars, fending off dead dogs and miniature ice-bergs, and otherwise easing the boat's passage to take any notice of their passengers. "Here?" he said softly, grinning.

"Really, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow, settling himself more comfortably on the narrow bench, "I'm utterly appalled by your disregard for even the barest trappings of decency. Are we beasts of the field, eh?"

"Mmm," said Jack Shaftoe, slouching a little to more easily accommodate the pocket-warmed hand that was even now insinuating itself beneath his coat, prying and wriggling its way down through the layered shirts in search of skin. "Of course not," he added, aware of Martingale's suspicious gaze on them both. "Decent, couth, well-mannered fellows, us."

"What's that, Jack?" said Burton, pointing ahead.

Jack swivelled his eyes. "That, Mr Burton," he announced, "is a temple raised by the Druids, the ancient folk of this land, who ... who ..."

"Are you right, there, Jack?" enquired Sparrow innocently, fingers busy in Jack's pocket.

"Never better," said Jack, twitching. "A Druid temple, Mr Burton, as old as the land itself. Look, you can see their mystic signs atop the tower, there, where the smoke comes out. See it, up there?" He gestured with the hand that wasn't clutching his coat over his groin.

"Aye, thass ol' Semper's Tannery, boys," growled one of the watermen, eyeing Jack's outflung hand. "Bloody awful reek." He spat over the side of the boat.

Burton turned a reproachful look upon Jack Shaftoe: but Jack, as the only native Londoner in their party (not counting that intrusive and ignorant sculler), was unrepentent. 'Twas his duty to educate them, was it not? And his reward to be caressed (though the openness of the boat, and the icy chill of the noontide air, prevented those caresses from being more than teasing touches) for each new flight of fancy? 'Sides, the tide was turning at last, and the longboat went forward more easily now: there were fresh sights to point out to his goggle-eyed companions as the city rose around them, and little enough time for anyone to squint too closely at the new church in Limehouse, or the ramshackle, balconied taverns along Narrow Street; the snowy white acreage hanging from a sail-maker's loft, or the forest of masts at the Custom House, where the river bent. And there, ahead of them, like a dam across the river, rose the Bridge.

Even the watermen were silent, their effort now given -- the tide carrying them upriver as fast as a man could walk -- to preventing collisions with other traffic and providing commentary on the antecedents of their fellow boatmen, rather than propelling Captain Jack Sparrow and his party to their destination.

"We're going under ... that?" said Burton at last.

The Bridge rose above them now, packed solid with tall houses that did not look entirely square on their watery foundation. A number of arches, beneath, foamed whitely: several of the piers were cluttered with moored boats, bales of goods, small children or other flotsam. Jack looked upon the scene nostalgically. Many was the happy afternoon he'd spent here with Bob, scrambling along the stonework, fishing hats and wigs (for a consideration) from the water --

"Bob," said Jack aloud, startling himself: but the roar of the river as it rushed through the narrow arches, foaming and battering, drowned his words. Only Jack Sparrow, his hand still nestled warmly against Jack's groin, felt him twitch and flinch.

* * *

Shaftoe might be a native Londoner, born in this vile icy waste, but Jack Sparrow knew a thing or two about making an impression. Despite the cold, he had Will and Djagdao baring their skin: oh, not all of it by a long shot, not enough to engender more than a very mild cold (in the savages) or heat (in the less shameful of the onlookers), but enough to show a hint, here and there, of dark, painted flesh. Within the hour they'd found lodgings and theatre both, three rooms above a cookshop on Fenchurch Street. The smallest room was no more than a cupboard with a mattress in it, but the largest was commodious enough to admit a score or so for private viewings. And after an exhausting conversation with the owner of the building, a Mistress Guilpin, Jack managed to extract an agreement that the back room of the shop -- currently the venue for a silent, sullen card-game whose players scowled indiscriminately at landlady and prospective tenant alike -- would be made available to them from that evening.

"See, Jack? Nothing to be gained, is there, by skulking around like a man with a warrant on him?"

"There probably _is_ a warrant on me, still," said Jack Shaftoe gloomily, eyeing the plastered walls of the room as though they were barred like a prison cell.

"Come, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack, stepping closer. "What's amiss? The lodging not to your taste, is it? Or p'rhaps it's that Mistress Guilpin who's disturbed you: but I swear I'll keep her at bay, never mind that chancy light in her eye when she turned it on you."

"Me?" said Shaftoe, grinning. "'Twas _you_ she was so taken with, Jack: and no wonder, the way you were leering and sighing over her."

"Jealous, Mr Shaftoe?" retorted Jack, not because he thought for one moment that Shaftoe'd mistaken his negotiatory strategies for genuine interest, but because he wanted Shaftoe to affirm his very definite claim on his, Jack's, affections.

But Shaftoe did not rise to the bait. He looked askance at Jack, and then away. "This ain't how I thought it'd be," he admitted at last. "Coming back."

"Thinking of making a triumphal entrance, were you?" said Jack, striking a pose. "The Daring Adventurer Jack Shaftoe, fresh from his Explorations in the New World? Oh, I do beg your pardon: the _Uttermost Corners_ of the New World, was it not?"

This reminder of Shaftoe's latest small victory raised the glimmer of a grin from its perpetrator. Emboldened, Jack sidled closer.

"Not, of course," he said, "that any of these benighted folk have any notion that the world's round, and has no corners. Never let it be said that Jack Sparrow stood in the way of Poetickal Truth. But tell me, Jack: what's amiss with our Presentation, eh? What's lacking from your Heroic Entrance and Daring Rescue?"

"Nothing," said Jack Shaftoe flatly. "It's as good as anything at the Globe. But, Jack: on that handbill that Martingale's taken off to be printed, did it say, anywhere, did it say my name?"

"'Course it did," declared Jack fervently. But perhaps that'd been the wrong answer, for Shaftoe was scowling. "I _think_ it did," amended Jack. "Why, what's amiss?"

"So if any man's looking for me -- p'rhaps, let's say, as a result of some scarcely credible, yet saltily scandalous, tale heard from a travelling bloke, a gentleman of the road -- then they'll know where to find me, eh?"

Jack cocked his head. "Still on about your mate Swift Nick? Jack, you said yourself he's a hundred miles from here, gone to ground somewhere in the north. He'll --"

"First of all," said Shaftoe, with incendiary ferocity, "he ain't my mate, not after what he took. And second, it doesn't take much to spread a tale far and wide, Rumour being the wanton that she is. As _you_ should know, Jack Sparrow."

"It's true," Jack said, modestly, "that Rumour has often been at my ... service." He looked Jack Shaftoe up and down. "She'll do whatever you want, if you rub her up the right way."

"Bollocks," snapped Shaftoe. "Swift Nick got to the bitch first, and it'll be a fucking miracle if the tale ain't all over London by now."

"Why, Jack, what tale's that?" said Jack, stepping back in case Shaftoe's irritation should outstrip his affection.

"Why, _only_ the tale of how Jack Shaftoe, infamous Vagabond and, what was it, Daring Adventurer, was discovered in an ordinary in Gravesend, taking it up the arse from a notorious pirate of the Caribbean!"

"Louder, darling," encouraged Jack. "There's a couple of deaf men down the end of the road that might not've heard you. No, Jack," twisting away from Shaftoe's blow, "c'mon: be reasonable, eh?"

Panting, Shaftoe grabbed at him again, but Jack swayed out of his reach.

"Mr Shaftoe," he said. "Firstly, we've no news of Mr Nevison, and no reason to believe that he's spoken of you at all, much less to such effect. And secondly, ain't it easier to deny it? Why should anyone believe such a tale?"

Shaftoe looked Jack up and down, eyes comically wide. "Oh, no reason," he said sweetly. " _Nothing_ to do with the company I keep."

Jack narrowed his eyes, but let this slur pass. "And thirdly, Mr Shaftoe," he said, deeming it safe to sway close again, and to peer up at Jack Shaftoe from beneath his eyelashes. "Thirdly, Jack," he murmured, "I didn't hear you ... complaining, at the time."

Shaftoe's arm went round Jack's waist, holding him close: Shaftoe's stubbly chin rasped against Jack's own cheek: Shaftoe's rough voice said warmly, 'gainst his ear, "Oh, I c'n keep quiet when I must."

Jack stared into a single blue eye, made impossibly more blue by the traces of kohl that lingered on the man's eyelid: turned his head and let himself fall into that blue, into Jack Shaftoe's kiss, wondering whether there was time --

Someone hammered on the door, and Jack Shaftoe sprang back like a scalded cat.

Jack stared at him, wide-eyed, and Shaftoe, staring back, cried, "Who's there?"

"It's me," came Martingale's voice. "Sorry to disturb you, Captain, Mr ... um." A sound of shuffling feet. "But there's someone downstairs askin' for Mr Jack Shaftoe."


	13. European Physick, Chapter Thirteen

  


Jack felt the rush of blood through his body, as warm and familiar as though he were about to enter into some ill-advised, but undeniably entertaining, combat. Someone knew he was here, already; _that_ hadn’t taken long.

He gave an _I told you so_ look to Sparrow, and muttered, “Rumour, eh? Quick on her feet, ain’t she, Jack?” He could still taste Sparrow’s kiss, feel the press of his mouth burning like a new tattoo; could not imagine that whoever-it-was downstairs would not be able to see it the same. He could almost hear Rumour’s whisper. _Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds, is back in town—but oooh, you wouldn’t credit how he’s changed. Wait’ll you see who’s on his arm now!_

Sparrow shrugged, and opened the door to Martingale. The lad had a fistful of the new handbills, and a wicked grin on his face, as though he were in possession of some mightily enjoyable secret.

“Who is it, then?” Jack demanded, as nonchalantly as he could.

Martingale lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “She din’t give me her name,” he said.

“Oooh! You’ve got a lady visitor!” cried Sparrow cheerfully, poking Jack in the ribs. “Is she pretty, Mr Martingale?”

Martingale grinned. “If you like that sort o’ thing, Captain.”

The mockery was climbing far too near the surface for Jack’s liking. “What sort o’ thing?” he growled. “What’s she look like?” He had a sinking feeling he knew. “Red hair?” he added.

“Oh, you _do_ know her!” Martingale was delighted. “She said she wasn’t sure as you’d remember her.”

“Who? Who?” Sparrow was fizzy with curiosity.

Jack, on the other hand, was in the jaws of a dilemma.

The lady downstairs was almost certainly the redoubtable Maeve Partry, sister of the late lamented Mary Dolores, and aunt to the two boys her sister’d borne with Jack’s assistance. Not to mention guardian of the same. This boded no good. Maeve Partry had a tongue on her that could be sharpened on a whetstone, and a nose for money that even Jack envied. And he hadn’t provided her with a lot of that, lately.

Worse: Jack had never got around to mentioning the small matter of his offspring to Jack Sparrow. And he suspected it was the sort of thing that one could reasonably be _expected_ to bring up, after several months of co-habitation and intense carnal relations.

He briefly entertained the thought of sending Martingale away with a message that Jack was not available: would not be available for some time: was missing, presumed dead. But he knew the Partrys better than that. Maeve would not be put off by a minor obstacle such as Jack’s expiration.

After a creditably short pause, given the intensity of his cogitations, he said off-handedly, “Oh, I s’pect it’s that trollop from the Cat & Whistle, that ain’t far from here. P’robly remembers me. Hard to forget, you know how it is.” And he winked at Sparrow.

“Can’t wait to meet her then,” said Sparrow. “Sounds as though me an’ this young lady might have a lot in common, Jack.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t like her. Dreadfully annoying laugh. Smells funny. Don’t she, Jamie? Did you not mark it? Oh well. You two stay here—don’t you need to check them notices, mate?—an’ I’ll go down and get shot of her. Back in a tick!” He slipped out the door, and shut it firmly behind him.

The door at the bottom of the stairs was open, letting in a cold breeze. The narrow girl who stood just inside it, peering out into the street, was indubitably _not_ Maeve. Relief warred with suspicion in Jack’s heart. Not Maeve; but then, who…?

The girl turned as he reached the bottom of the stairs and shot him a warm look of recognition, smiling a white-toothed smile that was wide and bright enough to match Jack Sparrow’s, if somewhat less lecherous and metallic. Ringlets of red-blond hair framed her face, pale and pink-cheeked against the dark scarf that wound round and round her neck. Wide-set grey eyes, a ridiculously pert nose: put another six inches on her, and she’d be the spitting image of Mary Dolores.

“Jack? Hello, Jack, d’you remember me?”

“Unforgivably, I don’t,” Jack said, with a wide smile which (he hoped) indicated that he thought her very pretty and was not at all given to consorting with sodomitical pirates, no matter what she might have heard. She had a glorious Irish brogue. She had to be a Partry. No question.

“Oh, I was only a scrap when I met you! I’m Clodagh; Clodagh Partry, Mary Dolores’ sister? We met once or twice, when you was in Ireland?”

“Clodagh!” Jack took her gloved hand, and kissed her knuckles, expanding shamelessly upon this gallantry with, “I knew you’d end up a beauty, but you’ve taken me by surprise nonetheless.” She laughed, as if she was not fooled for one moment by such rakish flattery.

“Ain’t this an astonishing thing?” she cried. “Me in London, and here I am, walking along Fenchurch Street”—she ducked her head out the door again, as though she were checking to see the street was still there—“an’ then this great big yellow-haired sailor boy gives me this here paper, and there’s your name, right there!”

Jack supposed this was better than her having heard of his arrival in town through John Nevison’s network. But he could stab Jack Sparrow and his voluble pen, he really could. Perhaps _with_ said instrument, in fact.

“Astonishing,” he agreed. “Why don’t you an’ I step out, then, for a walk? Why, there’s a chocolate house around the corner, and—”

But she was not listening. She was hanging back out into the street, and suddenly bellowing (Jack winced—she was Maeve and Mary D’s kin, alright), “Seamus! Daniel! Get yourselves here this instant! It’s him! It’s your da!”

*

Jack Sparrow caught hard at the doorframe, for fear that he would fall down the stairs. “What? Who?” whispered Martingale, behind him. Jack shushed him with a hand. He could not quite bring himself to speak.

Trollop, my arse, he thought; and as if that girl (that _lie_ ) wasn’t bad enough, there were—there were—

There were two miniature Jack Shaftoes standing in the doorway.

The two little boys were shoved forward by their aunt. One of them scowled ferociously up at open-mouthed Jack Shaftoe. The other (who had a purpling black eye) ignored him, being too occupied in excavating his nostril.

Jack Shaftoe had two little boys. Jack Shaftoe had _two little boys_. There they stood, identical, peas in a pod; their hair somewhere between Shaftoe’s rough straw and their auntie’s strawberry mop, their chins as square and belligerent as their daddy’s, their little mouths and long skinny legs and spidery hands and—and—and!

“Christ Almighty,” said Jack Shaftoe, as Jack mouthed the exact same words.

“This is Daniel,” said Clodagh Partry, putting a hand on the head of the scowler, “And this is Seamus.” She beamed happily. “Oh, ain’t it just a stroke of luck! Where’ve you been? A long way, by the looks o’ this!” She waved the handbill about again.

“Did you go a-pirating?” said Daniel.

“No,” said Jack Shaftoe, for no reason that Jack could appreciate.

“Did you bring back gold?” said Seamus, briefly removing his finger and inspecting the results with a clinical detachment.

“No. No gold. And you can tell _that_ to your Auntie Maeve.” To Clodagh, Shaftoe said, “What’re they doing here? I thought they were in Ireland?”

“They came over wi’ me. Maeve’s not been well, poor soul, an’ they do run her ragged; and their Uncle Bob is back from soldierin’ for the winter, so we’re staying with him, ain’t we, boys? Oh Jack, you must come with us, must come and see Bob!”

Shaftoe’s back was stiff as a board, and Jack could taste his own curiosity rising spicily under his tongue. He couldn’t wait to meet ol’ Bob. “I can’t,” Shaftoe said. “See for yourself, darlin’, on that paper: we’ve a show, tonight. I’m needed here. Later, maybe.”

Clodagh’s eyes narrowed. She leant forward, over the tops of the boys’ heads, and Jack strained to hear her fierce whisper. _No ‘maybe’ about it!_ he caught, and _…years has it been, since you saw these two?_ and _…father, like it or not!_ Not as sweet and pliable as she looked, then.

Shaftoe scowled. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the two little ragamuffins. “D’you like to drink chocolate?” he said.

“Oh, aye,” said Daniel, and Seamus kicked him and said, “You’re a fookin’ liar, you are, you never had none in your whole stinkin’ life, Danny Shaftoe.” Clodagh smacked him sharply about the ear and reproved him for his choice of adjectives; Seamus did not let out so much as a whimper.

“Right then,” said Shaftoe, looking on in undisguised horror. “I’ll just… get my coat.”

Jack slipped out of sight, and—dragging Martingale behind him—arranged himself and the pile of handbills by the window in their chamber, perusing madly.

“ _Uttermost Corners_ , what a load of shite!” he said, loudly and irritably, as Shaftoe’s footsteps approached. He looked up when Shaftoe came into the room.

“Was it the trollop?”

“It was,” said bare-faced Jack Shaftoe. “Can’t shake her; going to buy her a pint, that should shut her up.”

“Oh. Right. Where you off to? Cat & Whistle, did you say? I could join you in a while, rescue you from her clutches.”

“No need,” said Shaftoe briskly. “Back in a jiffy, I’m sure.”

And without a wink, without a kiss, without another word, he was gone.

*

Being a father was an unnatural and exhausting occupation, Jack Shaftoe decided after barely half an hour in his offspring’s company.

Jack thought he understood boys. To a large extent he _was_ one, wasn’t he? But, dear God! Surely he and Bob, and Dick before his untimely demise, had not been quite so… so relentlessly bellicose. In the space of three hundred yards, Daniel and Seamus (Danny and Jimmy, Jack declared; there was no call for such excessive _Irishness_ ) had embarqued upon no fewer than four rounds of fisticuffs, two of which had resulted in their tumbling onto the filthy cobbles, rolling about and swearing most inventively, albeit with what Jack considered to be a rather childish emphasis on the grosser bodily functions. Clodagh parted them as though they were fighting dogs, by the scruff of the neck, and wasn’t averse to inflicting the odd kick of her own as she saw fit.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Jack as they turned on each other for the fourth time, quite forgetting that he should be minding his language; Clodagh turned an evil eye on him (terrifying, the resemblance to Mary D) and spat that it was his fault, they were only showing off for him.

Jack glared back and applied some Parental Guidance by way of cracking the boys’ heads together and telling them that chocolate was off the menu if there was even one more smidgen of fraternal violence.

“Why?” said Jimmy, sullenly and rather unexpectedly. “What’s wrong with a bit o’ biff? You an’ Uncle Bob are soljers, ain’t you?”

“That’s violence with a _point_ ,” said Jack firmly. “Yours is just noisy and annoying.”

They weren’t stupid, those boys, he had to give them that. They went quiet, exchanging a glance, and were relatively well-behaved throughout the rest of the excursion (if one didn’t count cussing and nose-picking). When Jack stood to take his leave, having been apprised of their residential address and the necessity of a visit, _soon_ , the boys stood also; held out their hands and said polite goodbyes.

“Goodbye, then, boys; I shall see you anon,” said Jack resignedly.

Halfway up the street he heard running footsteps, and turned: was abruptly and simultaneously kicked in the shins and head-butted in the stomach.

“What the bloody devil—!” he shouted, and grabbed at the little wretches; but they wormed out of his grasp and ran away quicker than he would’ve thought possible on such short legs.

“An’ the point o’ _that_ vi’lence,” shouted Danny over his shoulder, “is to say that you’re a fookin’ useless da!”

This was self-evident and not worth arguing with. Jack made a disgusted noise and let them go.

Jack Sparrow was not in their room when he returned, nor in the back room, where the rest of the lads were hanging dirty calico curtains, cadged from their landlady, to form the wings of the stage.

Martingale just glared when Jack enquired as to their Captain’s whereabouts. What was up his arse? “Think he went for a wander, to rustle up a bit of custom f’r this evenin’,” Burton said with a shrug. “Might’ve gone for a drink, I don’t know.”

Jack’s suspicions were mightily roused by that filthy look of Jamie Martingale’s. He left, and began to scour the nearby streets and taverns. T’wasn’t hard, in the end; the Cat & Whistle it was, and Jack Sparrow stood out like a glinting guinea at the bottom of a wishing-well. Jack caught sight of him through the diamond-paned window, lounging by the fireside where the flames would glitter most enticingly on his gold, laughing up at a flat-chested tart and winding a curl of her dirty blond hair around his finger.

Sparrow looked over when Jack barged in, and his laughter evaporated. He smacked the girl on the bottom, and said, “Off you go, now, love; I think this fellow’s lookin’ for me.”

Jack signalled for a drink and took a seat. “Found you,” he said.

“So it would seem.” Sparrow’s expression was hard, shut away. There was no welcoming smile, no promise-filled glance. There was no hand creeping over to Jack’s thigh to tease and caress. Jack, who was beginning to assume that sort of treatment as his due, and besides had come here with the best of intentions—viz., to lay his cards on the table and come clean—suffered a wave of annoyance.

“What’re you so pissed about?” he said gracelessly.

“’Trollop from the Cat an’ Whistle’?” said Jack Sparrow, his voice cool acid. “You’d be s’prised how much I dislike bein’ lied to, Mr Shaftoe.”


	14. European Physick, Chapter Fourteen

  
  
"What?" said Shaftoe indignantly. "How was I to know she was going to show up, eh? Or was I s'posed to've told you every little detail of my life back here in London, just in case any of it should resurrect itself while we were in town?"

"Little details, eh?" said Jack Sparrow coldly. "All that mockery for poor Bootstrap, Mr Shaftoe: more'n a little hypocritical, wouldn't you say?"

"What the fuck are you on about?" said Shaftoe, colouring. That flush of blood under his tanned skin was as good as a signed confession, to Jack: Shaftoe never could hide his true feelings, not from Jack Sparrow anyway.

Though it seemed he'd managed to pull the wool over Jack's eyes quite thoroughly in respect of his domestic arrangements.

"'Trollop from the Cat and Whistle'," mimicked Jack, with a dismissive gesture. "'Be shot of her in a tick.' And yet, Jack, when I came along to the very inn where you'd vowed you were entertaining the lady, there wasn't a sign of you." Because you were in the chocolate-house down the road, enjoying a happy family reunion: but Jack did not say this aloud, not yet. He wanted to see how much Jack Shaftoe would admit, before Jack laid his sins out before him.

Despite -- or perhaps due to -- that treacherous flush, Shaftoe was a fine sight. His blood was up, all right: he was taut with indignation. When the girl brought his tankard, he downed half of its contents without a pause. Buying time, noted Jack.

Shaftoe swallowed, and took a moment to stare down at the stained, splintery table before he looked up again at Jack. "It would've taken too long to tell," he said softly, holding Jack's gaze with every appearance of sincerity. "And I'd no desire to entertain Mr Martingale with such a humdrum tale."

Heavens, was this an _apology_ from Jack Shaftoe? Jack crowed inwardly, and reminded himself to mark the date somehow. Fireworks, jubilations, a fanfare or two. And yet ... and yet, Jack Shaftoe had lied, and lied again: by omission, by implication and most recently by barefaced untruth. Jack had been nothing but honest when he'd declared how very much he loathed being lied to: but there was more to it than that, an icy clench of 'more' that'd lodged beneath his heart and was pumping anger and spite into his veins.

But Shaftoe had apologised, or at any rate seemed like to do so: and the greater, warmer part of Jack's heart was busily clamouring at him to forgive, if not forget. 'Sides, the view from the moral high ground was such a pleasant vista: and Jack Shaftoe, apologetic, might be persuaded to any quantity of conciliatory forfeits. Jack reined in his temper, and took another drink.

"Why," he said airily, "I'm sure it's a humdrum account indeed, Mr Shaftoe, and I'm eternally grateful to you for sparing me the tedium of it in all our time together." He paused, as though drawing a line under that time: saw Shaftoe's eyes widen at the implication of finality. "But perhaps, just to while away the hours before tonight's Production -- assuming you've nothing better to do -- you'd care to recount it now?"

"Um," said Jack Shaftoe, scowling into his beer. "There was this girl, see. That I knew."

Jack waited a moment, but Shaftoe did not meet his gaze, nor add anything to this bald statement.

"A girl, eh?" he said. "Who'd have thought it? Though, of course, you hadn't met _me_ , then. ... P'rhaps I can help you with your tale, Jack. There was a girl, and you made her all manner of fine promises 'til she succumbed and let you into her bed. I'm sure it was a lovely, lovely wedding. And then the trollop -- oh, I do beg your pardon, I was sure I'd heard you call her so -- fell pregnant, and you went to sea to seek your fortune. Just like good old Bill."

"I --"

"And then," said Jack, raising his voice, "she heard of your return, and -- not unreasonably -- came to claim her share of that fortune. Prob'ly keen on asserting some conjugal rights, too." He sighed dramatickally. "So of _course_ , Jack, you'll have told her that you're very sorry, et cetera et cetera: circumstances beyond your control: in love with another, must be _honest_ with her, can no longer remain in," he waved a hand, "this charming metropolis." He'd gone a little further than he intended, there, with talk of love: but it'd made Shaftoe flinch, which was all to the good. Now Jack leant t'wards Shaftoe, and set his hand on the man's shoulder -- thrumming with tension, he was -- and mustered his sweetest smile. "Am I right, Jack?" he said.

"No," said Jack Shaftoe flatly, and he shrugged out of Jack's hold. "No, Jack, you ain't. I told you --"

"You told me a _lie_ , Jack Shaftoe," said Jack frostily, sitting back and folding his arms. "But I saw the truth for myself, mate: a charming wife and two delightful offspring, come looking for their daddy." He raised an eyebrow, daring Shaftoe to deny it.

"She is _not_ ," began Shaftoe heatedly: then he looked away from Jack, and picked up his tankard, and drained it.

"Jack," he said, "I'll tell you the whole tale, and tell it true: but you must swear to listen, and to believe me when I tell it."

"Swear to believe a man who claims his wife's no more than, what was it, 'that trollop from the Cat and Whistle'? Oh, but of --"

"She's _not_ my bloody _wife_!" roared Jack Shaftoe, slamming his empty tankard down onto the table so hard that ale sloshed out of Jack's own cup and pooled in a well-scrubbed concavity.

Jack moved his knee away from the slow trickle of beer. He was undeniably heartened by Shaftoe's vehemence: but bright and clear in his mind's eye were those two miniature Shaftoes, too like his Jack not to be close kin. And that ... that _female_.

"Perhaps," he said, looking around the common-room and their rapt audience, "we should continue this discussion elsewhere, Mr Shaftoe?"

* * * 

More than anything, Jack would have liked to cement the outbreak of peace with some physical affirmation: half an hour of heady kissing, perhaps, with Jack Sparrow's clever hands working their way beneath Jack's clothes. Or -- assuming that Martingale, Burton and the Indians'd give them any peace -- an opportunity for Jack to demonstrate to Sparrow the authenticity of his affection (not to mention his _lust_ ) for that gentleman. Or even the opportunity to drop to his knees, get his mouth on Sparrow's privities and display his enthusiasm for those very definitely (nay, definitively) masculine sports and pastimes that the two of them enjoyed in one another's company.

But by the time that he'd told Sparrow the whole sorry tale -- the wooing and winning of Mary-Dolores Partry; her pregnancy, during which time Jack had made himself Unavoidably Absent; her production of the twins, and subsequent demise; the keen familial affections of her sisters, cousins, nuncles and other members of the Partry tribe -- the light on Fenchurch Street had been failing, a mizzly dusk flowing over the mossed roofs and sooty brickwork. There had been little enough time before the evening's Show: and Jack Sparrow, though he had nodded and smiled and shown every sign of believing Jack, was suspiciously impervious to Jack's overtures.

"About time, Mr Shaftoe, that you readied yourself for the stage," he said now, leaning against the door-jamb and looking Jack up and down. The appraisal seemed rather less appreciative than was usual, but Jack lacked the stomach for further disagreement.

"It ain't as though I _asked_ to be a father!" he exclaimed instead. "Two squalling brats, and look, you c'n still see the place where their dear departed ma walloped me when I asked if they might not belong to some other fellow. Look!"

Sparrow came over and examined Jack's temple gravely; examined, in fact, the scar of an earlier encounter with an enraged female; a whore by the name of Flora, who'd swung at him with a poker over some trifling witticism. Jack preferred his version of events.

"Dangerous things, women," agreed Sparrow. "'Specially when they're breeding."

"Now, there sounds the voice of experience," said Jack Shaftoe, perceiving an opportunity to get his own back. "And for all I know, Jack, _you've_ spawned a little Sparrow or two. Easily done, ain't it?"

Sparrow's eyes went wide, and he shook his head. "Not me, mate," he assured Jack.

"Don't tell me you ain't never been with a female," Jack parried. "I have it on excellent authority: or perhaps you've forgotten ... forgotten ... " Damn it, what _were_ their names? "Forgotten that charming pair at the Mermaid, in Port Royal?"

"That sort of woman doesn't fall pregnant," Sparrow said smugly. "P'rhaps your Mary-Dullness was trying to _entrap_ you, Jack."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Do I _look_ entrapped?"

"You look to me," murmured Jack Sparrow, swaying in close, "like a man who's been run to ground by his dead wife's representative. A man who'll be lucky to escape with his life, let alone any more portable wealth, if he don't make some provision for the, ah, fruits of his labours. P'rhaps we could take the boys to sea, eh, Jack?"

Jack did not need to feign the shudder that overtook him at the thought: Jimmy and Danny perpetually underfoot, eternally in the way, _watching_ him. Though perhaps they might be swept overboard and drowned ...

"Hold still," said Sparrow, distracting him from this patricidal reverie. "I'll do your eyes for you."

"I c'n think of some _other_ things you might do for me," hinted Jack, submitting with good grace to Sparrow's oddly gentle fingers on his face, to the tickle of the brush.

"Mmmm," said Sparrow, biting his lip (oh, how Jack wanted to kiss it better!) as he drew a steady line beneath Jack's right eye. "Well, darlin', maybe my _previous_ artwork's in need of ... oooh, of _touching up_ , eh?"

Jack shivered in a more pleasurable way, recalling the long slow tease of the paintbrush on his back, the feel of Jack Sparrow's hands, his _tongue_ ...

"Later, Jack," said Sparrow, beaming at him: and he leaned forward and dropped a single dry chaste kiss on the bridge of Jack's nose.

 

There was a good crowd tonight: the cookshop, now theatre, was crammed full of men, women and children. Jack peered out past the row of lanthorns, looking for the red glint of Clodagh's hair or the small, localised disruption that would mark the location of his boys, but the lights dazzled him, and he could make out no more than the pale blurs of faces, the round black holes of their mouths as they spoke. The din was tremendous.

Jack caught the glimmer of Sparrow's smile from across the stage: time for the show! In truth, this was not quite on a level with the great theatres of Jack's youth: the Globe, the Rose, the Black Bull. But there was something about the baying of the audience -- hushing now as Sparrow strode out into the empty space that passed for a stage -- that stiffened Jack's spine and stirred his blood.

Jack lurked in the wings (more truthfully, in the draughty space between the curtains and the wall) while Jack Sparrow made his introductions. "Well-known adventurer" had quite a ring to it, and there was no mention of the untold wealth that Jack (like the rest of the crew) had won on that black reef, and (like the rest of the shore party, Bill and Enoch excepted) had been relieved of by that perfidious shithead Nevison. (The thought of Swift Nick sent a familiar shiver of foreboding down Jack's spine: but the man seldom ventured this far south, and Rumour could do her worst in Nottingham and Lincoln, for Jack Shaftoe'd no intention of visiting those pestilential villes.)

"Dark benighted lands," said Sparrow, and Jack knew it for his cue. Out he strode, head up: peering out into the audience as though admiring a magnificently exotic panorama, rather than the close-packed, dully-dressed roomful of Londoners gathered here tonight. There was a grey-faced brat in the front row, squealing and pointing: Djagdao must be on stage now, creeping up behind Jack.

Jack was attacked, and dropped to his knees; delivered his soliloquy to a rapt and silent audience, tugging the while at his garotte (must have a word with Djagdao about that: it was uncomfortably tight); goggled at Will with credible alarm, and -- with a vile hawking sound -- began to curse and complain of the noose that was strangling him.

And as Will raised his blowpipe to despatch Djagdao, Jack, still clutching at his sore neck, heard a voice in the crowd say, " _I_ made that up."

Jack glanced around frantically, at least as much as was possible given Djagdao's relentless hold on the rope. The lights were too bright, and he couldn't see the man who'd spoken. But he knew that voice.

Somehow he made it to the end of their little play: the words flowed from him as easily as before, though there was a tight knot of something -- perhaps merely part-strangulation -- in the pit of his throat. Then the interminable wait while Will and Djagdao hurled darts at a freckly lass with brown ringlets. And then, at last -- it seemed like hours later -- Martingale and Burton were shooing the audience out of the door.

One man had not moved. He stood at the back of the room, in the shadows, his face turned t'wards where Jack stood at the side of the stage.

Fuck.

Jack stole a quick look behind him, but there was no easy route of escape: and besides, they'd know where to find him. Best to face it. He stepped over the line of lanthorns and walked towards the other man, who came to meet him.

"Bob," said Jack, unsmiling. "Glad to see you're well."

Bob Shaftoe opened his mouth to speak: but out of nowhere, it seemed, an arm descended on Jack's shoulders, and a warm presence adhered itself to his side.

"And _you_ must be Bob Shaftoe," exclaimed Sparrow with a kind of bow, while Jack stood frozen in an agony of embarrassment. "I've heard _so_ much about you," said Jack Sparrow: and, straightening up, he winked.


	15. European Physick, Chapter Fifteen

  


The effort required to stop staring would have been quite utterly excessive: Jack Sparrow could think of only two ends—being a) acquisition of vast quantities of specie, or b) Jack Shaftoe his Pleasure—that could possibly justify such an exertion. Mere politesse certainly didn’t. So he stared, quite openly, at the Infamous Jack Shaftoe and his Not-Infamous-In-The-Slightest brother Bob.

They could be a handsome set of twins, if the Sun could be responsible for one and the Moon for the other. Where Jack Shaftoe’s yellow hair gleamed gold, Bob’s tight-bound queue shewed silvery; where Jack’s blue eyes reflected laughter, Bob’s were cool and serious. Jack Shaftoe’s skin, all burnished still by Caribbean months; Bob’s weathered but unmistakably English, never mind all that soldiering he did. So alike in body, the wide shoulders and long legs (though Jack fancied that his darling had narrower hips, a sweeter arse); so different in stance, Bob all straight-backed and symmetrical as a well-drilled infantryman, his brother shifting his fidgeting weight from one hip to another, back again, despite the presence of a pirate plastered to his side.

Bob Shaftoe looked at Jack in a rather unflattering way. “I am indeed Bob Shaftoe,” he said, and the voice, too, was his brother’s, reflected and cooled. “And you’ve the advantage of me; I’ve no idea whomsoever you might be.”

“Captain Jack Sparrow, of the _Black Pearl_ , at your service.” Jack made a leg.

“He’s my Captain,” said Jack Shaftoe truculently. Was it only Jack who heard that emphasis on the possessive pronoun? He gave Shaftoe’s shoulder a subtle squeeze; but Shaftoe shrugged him off, and went to embrace his brother. Bob hugged him back, but over Shaftoe’s shoulder he screwed his eyes closed. Jack did not know whether it was in joy or distress.

“So. You’re pirating, then,” said Bob, patting Shaftoe on the back and then pushing him away to arm’s length. There was disapproval in the tone, but certainty too; no point in denial, not with this one. He was a Shaftoe, after all.

“Aye, and he’s a natural,” said Jack cheerfully.

Bob looked at him as though he were a bad taste; and as if his brother weren’t even standing there in front of him, he said, “He’s just easy led, and led astray easiest of all.”

Shaftoe’s mouth opened instantly, his brows crashing down; Jack pre-empted the rest of the overtures to fratricide by throwing his arm around Shaftoe’s waist and saying, “I don’t know ‘bout _that_ , mate—I’ve noticed a distinct tendency to get his own way. Whatever Jack Shaftoe wants, he gets. Eh, Jack?” And to distract Shaftoe from his annoyance (but out of Bob’s sight, Jack wasn’t being _cruel_ ) he squeezed a delicious handful of taut, angry arse.

(Behind him one of the Indians said, “Huitaca!”—what the fuck did that mean?—and the other smothered a snort of laughter.)

“Shut up, Jack,” said Shaftoe, pushing him away and scowling. “Ignore him, Bob, he’s—he’s—”

The elusive adjective never came. Bob just nodded and said, “Mmm.”

“I suppose you’re here about the boys,” Shaftoe said.

“That, and… why wouldn’t I come, brother? It’s been a long time.”

“’Course it has,” said Jack. “Why don’t you come on upstairs, Bob? May I call you Bob?” He gave his most charming and manly smile, but it splattered against a wall of indifference. This was not going well, Jack sensed. Bob had Opinions, and Jack Sparrow was not on the right side of them.

Shaftoe was glaring at him. “I don’t think our rooms are the most salubrious place for visitors,” he said. Jack just grinned, knowing exactly what was going through Shaftoe’s head: visions of that one wide bed, and what they’d do upon it, just as they had done on so many other beds (and floors, and tables, and blankets, and fields, and decks; against diverse walls and bulkheads and a large, smooth-boled tree; over several barrels, and a rather memorable pew).

“The Cat an’ Whistle, then?” he said cheerfully. “They’ve the most delightful trollops there, Bob.”

“You don’t need to come,” said Shaftoe, obviously not appreciating Jack’s over-subtle wit.

“Nonsense! All that _play-acting_ gives a man a powerful thirst,” said Jack, becoming less subtle by the minute.

 

 

The Cat and Whistle’s patrons included several who’d been present at the performance, and Jack was accosted repeatedly en route back to the table with their drinks. Didn’t take long, notoriety. He settled himself across the table from Jack Shaftoe, and gave Bob his beer (boring bugger) and poured generous measures of rum for himself and Shaftoe from the bottle he’d purchased. Under Bob’s watchful eye, he’d lay he could get at least half this bottle down Jack Shaftoe, and that’d make for an entertaining evening. Jack adored Shaftoe, jug-bit. True to form, Shaftoe sculled his first measure and slammed his cup down for more.

“So, you’re in Limehouse?” Shaftoe said.

“Yes; with Clodagh Partry and your sons. Makes for a very full house.”

“Bit improper ain’t it, Bob?” said Jack, nudging the fellow with his elbow. Bob looked pained.

“She’s family,” he said.

The girl who’d been pestering Jack earlier sidled past, giving him a welcoming look. He shoo’d her away. “Clodagh’s a pretty wee thing, though,” he said. “Tasty. Ain’t she, Jack? Must be tempting, bein’ stuck in the same house with her.”

Both Shaftoes were glaring at him now. This was fun. “Oh, come on! Surely you’ve noticed? Curvy little figure? All her teeth? Nice combination of sweet an’ fierce?”

“She’s the sister of the dead mother of my brother’s children,” said Bob, as if this confusing chain of relations bore some implication. Jack widened his eyes, nodding as if this hadn’t occurred to him, and knocked Shaftoe’s knee with his own, under the table.

Shaftoe put his hand on Bob’s and said with great gravity, “Bob, I give you my blessing. The shade of Mary Dolores gives you hers an’ all. Have at her, man.”

Bob pursed his lips and drew his hand away. “Surprised you didn’t yourself,” he said, and then he threw a frankly accusatory glance in Jack’s direction. Shaftoe didn’t miss it for a moment.

“Not me, Bob,” he said, and then surprised Jack most utterly by saying, “Met someone else.”

Jack shot him a hot look, and a bubble of pleasure rose in his chest. After all the lies and omissions, Jack Shaftoe was going to acknowledge him! To brother Bob, no less! He pressed his knee more firmly against Shaftoe’s; Shaftoe shifted away.

“And where’s she? Have you made an honest woman out of her?” said Bob.

Shaftoe laughed. “What, an’ put an end to her career?”

A heavy sigh from Bob. “Jack, for Christ’s sake, a whore’s just a whore, and you should know better.”

Jack Shaftoe’s eyes narrowed. “ _Just_ a whore? She’s an enterprising woman, Bob, surviving in a man’s world.”

Despite his undoubted disappointment, Jack was intrigued. Shaftoe was so good at making shit up, he really was.

“An’ she’s bloody gorgeous,” Shaftoe was saying inventively. “Great big dark eyes, Bob, and a mouth on her to die for.”

Bob frowned. “That’s no way to talk about—”

“What, no way to talk about a _lady?_ ” Shaftoe cried, and drained his cup again. “My love’s no lady, Robert, I’ll tell you that much for nothing. No lady’s as wanton as this one, nor so cunning and brave, neither.”

“So,” said Bob in the tones of one quite determined to change the subject, “when are you going to come and visit your boys? And how long are you going to be here? And it’s about time you made some contribution to their bloody upkeep, for that matter.”

“Soon,” said Shaftoe. “We’ve got a business matter to attend to, haven’t we, Jack?”

“Absolutely,” said Jack supportively, and then, less so, “Really Bob, you should see Jack’s… girl. Bloody lovely. _I’d_ jump into their bed in a second, I swear. The arse on her! Sends Jack quite rhapsodic, it does.”

Shaftoe flushed, and kicked him under the table.

“What sort of business matter?” Boringly, Bob would not be deflected.

*

It was purely tedious, the amount of detail Bob required before he’d be satisfied that the Cure’s sale was all above board and licit. On the other hand, he’d been useful; had confirmed that Mrs Williams' fine Establishment was still open for business, and that dear Flora was still in her employ (Lord, that piece of intelligence’d been like pulling teeth).

In short, it was no wonder that Jack Sparrow’d become bored and wandered off to the bog-house; and less wonder that the moment he was out of earshot Bob’d turned on Jack in dismay.

“What the _fuck_ , Jack, do you think you’re about? You’ve been caught up with some odd ones in your time, but he’s… he’s…”

“Special, ain’t he,” said Jack, reduced to juvenile sullenness in his brother’s presence.

“Well, it does explain a lot,” said Bob, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“What, pray, is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Bob shook his head again, more angrily this time, and leant forward on his elbows. “Jack, you’re a bloody fool. Leave this nonsense. John Churchill will have you back, if I put in a word, I’m sure of it; it’ll be like old times, you can put all this idiocy behind you. And come summer we’ll be away again, back to the Continent.”

“Come summer,” said Jack, “I shall be en route for Jamaica.”

“What, with that pirate? Don’t you know what’s being said about you, on the streets?”

“No, and nor do I give a damn,” fibbed Jack, even as a queasy sensation stirred in his belly. Nevison. Fucking _Nevison_. He refilled his mug.

“Well you should, brother. I met Daniel Wallis, this evening on my way here—”

“Daniel? Daniel Wallis? How is the fellow?” babbled Jack, in a futile attempt at diversion. “Good man, Daniel Wallis. Where’s he been, then?”

He might as well not have spoken. “I told him I was coming to see you,” Bob continued, “and he said word was that you’d become a—a _pirate’s catamite_.” Bob delivered this news as though Jack’d been accused of happily taking it up the arse from Beelzebub himself.

“Bollocks,” said Jack, scowling fiercely. Bob (helpfully) took this as a refutation, rather than a simple swear word.

“’Tis what I told him, though he swore it true—said you’d been, been _observed_ ”—that was rather delightful, was Bob _blushing_?—“but now I see why such a rumour’s grown so fast and strong. What else are people to think, when you’re going about with a fellow like that one? Christ Almighty, Jack, don’t you see what he is? How he looks at you?”

“How he looks at me?” said Jack, playing Innocence.

“He’s got a Thing for you,” said Bob darkly. “I tell you, Jack, you’d best shuck him, and toot sweet. Did you hear what he said? About you and your doxy? _I’d jump into their bed in a second,_ he said. Not ‘her’ bed, Jack. ‘Their’ bed. And he’s touching you as soon as look at you, too.”

“Pfft,” said Jack. “He’s just an affectionate type. Don’t be such an old woman.”

Bob drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Jack. It’s a _hanging_ matter, and Rumour’ll suffice to bring you to the noose. D’you think they haven’t enough reasons to be after your hide already?”

“Is that little matter of impersonating the Bishop not forgot yet, then?”

“No.”

“Impersonating a Bishop?” cried Jack Sparrow delightedly, coming up behind Bob. “How coincidental, I’ve been known to masquerade as clergy myself! Have I not told you of it, Jack?” He settled himself back in his seat, and Bob sat back, stiffly.

“What about you, Bob? Ever posed as priestly? You’d be good at it, you would. Got that righteous air about you,” said Sparrow, eyeing Bob admiringly.

“I have to go,” said Bob stonily. “Jack, the boys are expecting you tomorrow.”

“But—” said Jack.

“Tomorrow, then,” said Bob, with a glare, and was gone.

They watched his retreating back. “I don’t think he likes me much,” said Sparrow, grinning.

“ _I_ don’t like you much,” said Jack, and kicked him. “Could you please stop pawing me in public?”

“What?” Sparrow looked mystified, the bastard.

“And bloody Nevison’s spread the word,” Jack snapped. “Apparently it’s only your obvious oddity that’s keeping Bob from thinking me your bloody catamite.”

“Ooh. Ouch,” said Sparrow, but a cold look came over him, and he seemed to draw into himself, away from Jack.

Too harsh, Jack realised belatedly, and hypocritical to boot; he suspected that restitution was called for.

“Drink up,” he said, and gave Sparrow an apologetic smile. “Drink up, and let’s away; and I’ll put Rumour to bed, an’ show you the truth of the matter.”

*

Door closed and barred, lanthorn lit, coats pulled off, hats dropped to the floor; Shaftoe pressed against Jack, pinning him to the rough plaster wall, kissing him harsh and hot and sure.

Kissing his _obvious oddity_. Keen on making Jack his own _bloody catamite_.

Jack would have none of this. Would not be treated so. He kissed back, pulled Shaftoe’s hips close, till he was sure the man’s blood was good and up, hot and strong; then pushed him away.

“Don’t let Bob see,” he goaded. “He’ll think you want me, Jack. Think you don’t mind being, what was it, _pawed in public_.”

“Oh, don’t,” Shaftoe said, and reached for him again; Jack held him off, his palm against Shaftoe’s chest, his lust all piquey with anger.

“D’you want me or not, Mr Shaftoe? Am I really what you’re after, or just standing in for some imaginary girl?”

Shaftoe clenched his fists and Jack thought for a moment he was going to stamp his foot. Adorable. “You know you’re what I want,” Shaftoe growled. “But don’t pretend it’s all normal, Jack; it ain’t. And we could be hanged for’t, in case you forgot.”

“I’m already hangin’ material, an’ so are you; so add it to the list, I don’t give a fuck.”

Shaftoe wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and stared mutely at Jack. Jack leaned back against the wall, and rubbed his palm along the solidity of his yard, eager still in his breeches. He licked his lips, and smiled inside to see Shaftoe mirroring it. “You’ve been a liar today, and an arsehole this evening,” he said conversationally.

Shaftoe just stared at him, not disputing it, with that wild blue-eyed stare that reduced Jack to ashes. Jack stroked himself again, pushing into his hand.

“You want me, Jack Shaftoe?”

Shaftoe pulled his shirt over his head in answer. Knowing, the wretch, how much the sight of him stirred Jack.

“If you want me, an’ not some figment of a trollop, then you’d better _show_ me how much you want me,” demanded Jack, unsmiling. He flicked open the buttons on his breeches: one, two, three. “Kneel down here, Jack Shaftoe… kneel down here and take me in your mouth. Suck me till I consider it an apology.”

Jack Shaftoe bared his teeth, and Jack thought he might’ve pushed it too far; but then he groaned, and then (oh, yes!) was on his knees. Was tugging at Jack’s breeches, pulling off his boots, running his hands up Jack’s legs, clutching Jack’s hips. Wetting his lips and glaring up at Jack with an impossibly flammable mixture of desire and denial.

“Open up,” said Jack imperiously; and shuddered with delight when Shaftoe did, opened up and took him in. Jack sucked in a huge breath at the red, wet heat of it. His hips twisted forward, his head fell back against the wall; Jack Shaftoe showed him how much he was wanted, and apologised till Jack howled.


	16. European Physick, Chapter Sixteen

  
  
The day had dawned with clearer skies than of late, or so at any rate Jack Shaftoe surmised: he'd had no truck with Dawn, having lain late abed in the warm and affectionate embraces of rum and Jack Sparrow. Sparrow seemed inclined to remain, naked and enticing, beneath the sheets, an incitement to sloth, and lechery, and most of the other deadliest sins, not to mention several capital crimes: but Jack, still unsettled by the visitation of his stolid brother, was determined to attend to matters of business.

"Gold," he said to Sparrow, tapping his fingers impatiently on the rotting window-sill while that gentleman dressed himself. "Gold, Jack: specie in very considerable quantities: and all we've to do for it is to tell the truth."

"'T'ain't natural," complained Sparrow, sullen with frustration (though, Jack thought with no little indignation, he'd been satisfied most variously and thoroughly last night). "Might as well turn to _shopkeeping_."

"Nonsense," said Jack. "We're doing London a grand favour, as well as ourselves a profit. Don't it warm your heart, eh, to bring that same salvation to others as we've experienced ourselves?"

"There's not a lot in this frigerated country that warms any part of me, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow, drawing on his gloves. "Present company excepted, of course." And he gave Jack a look so refulgent that Jack had to clench his fists, forbidding his body to fling off its own clothes (and Jack Sparrow's) and make good on the promise of heat.

"Come, Jack," he said. "It's a fine day, or what passes for one in these parts: and we've introductions and overtures to accomplish before the evening."

"Not forgetting your _familial_ duties," said Sparrow with studied nonchalance, opening the door and waving Jack to precede him.

Jack winced. "I hadn't forgotten," he said. "Needn't take long, though: I'll be back before the show."

"Sure you wouldn't like me to accompany you?" said Sparrow. "For ... moral support?"

"Immoral support, more like," said Jack, smirking. "No, Jack: there's no use in setting Bob off. Worse than Bootstrap, he is: ten times worse, when he gets a notion in his head."

"Well," said Sparrow airily, pausing on the threshold of the cook-shop to appraise London, "I'm sure I shall find some way of amusing myself."

Fenchurch Street was a mass of people and traffic, as busy and heaving as the waves of the sea, and much noisier. Somewhere nearby, a shrill-voiced strumpet was hawking lavender: in the middle of the muddy street, a pair of carters were bellowing slow insults at one another's vehicles, horses, goods: a man in fine clothes, with a sword at his side, shoved past Sparrow with a curse.

"And how're we to find our market, in this?" enquired Sparrow, scowling at the relentless flow of people.

"Don't worry," said Jack. "I've the ideal intermediary in mind. As you'd know, if you hadn't wandered off last night while I was extracting _market information_ from brother Bob."

Slipping and shouldering through the London crowd -- a hand to his newly-heavy purse, replenished with the admission fees of more than a hundred gawping Londoners -- felt more like homecoming than anything that had happened to Jack Shaftoe since he came ashore at Rochester. It helped that the weather had eased now, though the sky, glimpsed between tall buildings, was a pale, watery blue quite unlike the rich tropical shade to which Jack'd grown accustomed. And surely the sun shone less brightly, less aureately than it had in the Caribbean?

Glancing back -- Jack Sparrow was easily distracted, and was besides a distraction in his own right, as far as the natives were concerned -- Jack could not help but wonder if Sparrow, too, had faded and dimmed, out of his natural environment. O, Jack Sparrow could never be drab! The glitter and gleam was still there, and the heat in that black gaze -- even here on a busy London thoroughfare -- still woke a tidal surge in Jack's blood: but Sparrow mud-splattered, muffled, hunched against the cold was somehow diminished from the glorious bold pirate who Jack'd first encountered on that langorous Caribbean night.

"Anyone who lives in this benighted country," grumbled Sparrow, cuffing a small child away from his sash, "sh'd welcome an early death. They won't give a penny for the Cure."

"Oh, come on," protested Jack. "It ain't all bad, Jack. I'll lay I can show you some wonders, on our way."

"Is it far?" said Sparrow. "Why can't we just find a decent brothel -- I'll lay there are some, even in these parts, that cater to the Quality -- and make our pitch there?"

"The lady I have in mind," said Jack, for the sole purpose of inciting jealousy in Jack Sparrow, "has a very distinct Advantage. Now, Jack," coming to an abrupt halt on a busy corner, heedless of the foot-traffic behind them, "ain't _that_ a sight?"

Jack, who knew the maze of London streets like the back of his hand -- they had not changed appreciably in his absence -- had led Sparrow down narrow, high-walled alleyways and along winding streets, past tall, soot-blackened churches and through insanitary courtyards: thoroughfares, if they could be thus dignified, that forced the gaze to eye-level at best, and frequently -- because of hazards and obstructions -- lower. Now the two of them had emerged on the corner of Fish Street Hill and Eastcheap. To their left glittered the river, reflecting and amplifying the weak spring sun, scarcely visible on either side of London Bridge. And here, casting a gargantuan shadow that parallelled the river, a massive pillar of pale stone rose high above the houses, the inns, the courts of London.

"What the fuck is that?"

"'Tis the Fire-Monument, Captain Sparrow," said Jack, with no little pride. "That's gold at the top, where the flames are."

"Flames, is it?" said Sparrow, shading his eyes and peering up at the distant pinnacle of the edifice. "Delightful." He flicked a provocative glance at Jack. "A ruder fellow might interpret it as some great Phallus, stood there to commemorate an especially fine ... fuck."

Jack's own phallus twitched at the word, and an Impish urge assailed him. "I see I should've taken rooms _nearer_ , so that it might inspire us both: though I have to say," he ducked his head to speak close against Sparrow's ear, nudging aside the brim of the pirate's hat, "I didn't notice any _lack_ , last night." Jack straightened up, glaring at an inquisitive hussy in a doorway. "Given that similitude," he said more loudly, "I assume you won't be wanting to climb up the inside? Fine view of London-town, from the top."

"Perhaps another time, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow. "Unless that lady of your acquaintance makes her home in that rarified demesne?"

"I fear not," said Jack Shaftoe. "Her dwelling is of an _earthier_ nature."

Across London Bridge they went, pausing to observe the mossed skulls of various traitors, coiners and pirates: both still and silent a moment, from respect and from (on Sparrow's part) a professional interest in cataloguing the ships at anchor in the Pool of London.

"There must be hundreds here," he marvelled. "And just think, Jack: every one of those ships, _every one of 'em_ , must pass down-river with her cargo. Why, it'd be easy living indeed for any bold privateer with a sweet secret bolt-hole!"

Jack nodded repressively at the ranked skulls. "Easy _dying_ , too. But surely no privateer worth the name would linger in this, what was it, this _frigerated_ country?"

"You have a point," conceded Jack Sparrow, with a last longing gaze at the forest of masts, stays and furled sails. "I've been ashore too long, Jack: I need the sway of a deck 'neath my boots."

"Aye," said Jack, chuckling. "You've been walking in very nearly a straight line, Captain Sparrow, though I'd attributed it to lack of rum rather than salt water. Shall we, then, conclude our terrestrial business, the sooner to return to your _Pearl_?"

_That_ name brought a glimmer to Sparrow's gaze, a spring to his pedestrian gait: and in turn sparked a sour twist beneath Jack's heart, for no reason that he could explain to himself.

"This way," he said. "Welcome to Southwark."

* * *

Jack Sparrow followed Shaftoe along a narrow alley, the houses nearly meeting above their heads: then out into a churchyard lined with grey gnarled trees that were faltering into leaf. Shaftoe was unusually laconic this morning, and his silence made Jack -- still resentful of 'obvious oddity' and 'bloody catamite' -- itchily suspicious.

"So, Jack," he said, "this girl of yours, the one we're off to see: cunning and brave, I suppose?"

"Not 'specially," said Jack Shaftoe, pretending not to recognise that description. "But she can do us a service that I doubt there's another whore in London can provide."

"Oh, aye? Wanton, is she? Mouth on her to die for?"

At that Jack Shaftoe turned, and seized Jack's shoulder, and propelled him into the nearest angle of church-wall: pressed against Jack most delightfully fierce, and said, in the tone of one coming belatedly to a marvellous revelation, "Why, Jack Sparrow, are you _jealous_?"

"Jealous of what?" countered Sparrow. "That wanton girl with huge dark eyes and a wicked mouth? That girl you invented to spare Bob the horrible truth vis-a-vis your recent ... fornications?"

"If I'd met a lass like that," said Shaftoe, grinning, "maybe I'd never've come to the Caribbean at all, Jack: maybe we'd never've met, you and I."

"Don't let me keep you from your enquiries," snapped Jack.

"I've no need to search," said Shaftoe, with that broad snaggle-toothed smile that reliably jellified Jack's knees. "I know for sure ..." And he leant closer, close enough that Jack wondered giddily if Shaftoe were about to kiss him, here in this busy church-yard, here in broad daylight (or what passed for it in this latitude), here, here ...

" _What_ d'you know for sure, Jack Shaftoe?" said Jack, bringing a gloved finger to his lips in a parody of puzzlement.

"That there's no girl anywhere," murmured Shaftoe, breath warm against Jack's face, "that's your match, Jack Sparrow." And, quick as thought, his lips pressed against Jack's mouth, against that straying finger.

Jack closed his eyes, awaiting the kiss to which that peck'd surely been prequel: but it was not forthcoming, and Shaftoe was tugging at his shoulder again.

"Come on, Captain Sparrow!" he said. "We've ladies awaiting us --"

"Ladies?" growled Jack.

"Oh, very well: women. And I'd as soon catch 'em before they're open for _business_ , as it were."

"Oho," said Jack, " _that_ sort of female."

"Really, Jack," said Shaftoe, "what d'you take me for?"

"And this one's special in what respect?" pursued Jack.

"Why, because I know her," said Shaftoe cheerfully. "And she knows me."

"What, and there's not half a hundred whores 'twixt here and Westminster can say the same?" mocked Jack, sidestepping an improbably-blistered cripple on the pavement. "And to think I took you for a man of the world, Jack Shaftoe!"

Shaftoe shot a wicked look over his shoulder, and winked. "You don't know the half of it," he said. "But come along, Jack," glancing up at the clouding sky, "it'll rain before noon, and I've no wish to get a soaking. It's not far now: just along Winchester Street, and we'll be there."

The first heavy grey drops of London rain had begun to fall -- Jack phant'sied he could feel them etching their way through the layers of his clothing -- when Shaftoe halted before a brightly-painted door, on which he pounded a merry rhythm.

"We're closed!" bawled a woman from within.

"'Tis Jack Shaftoe," Shaftoe yelled back, "come home from the New World with a business proposition for you, Mother Williams. Will you let me in?"

A muffled obscenity echoed beyond the door.

"Ah well," said Shaftoe cheerily, loud enough to be heard (in Jack's opinion) by anyone unfortunate enough to be resident in this revolting borough. "I'll be down at Mary Reeves' stew, if anyone sh'd come looking: I presume the good lady still keeps her house on Dead Man's Place?"

Before Shaftoe had taken more than a single step away from the red door, it flew open, and a tall, broad woman stood framed there.

"Well: Jack Shaftoe it is," she said, scowling. "'Oo's this, then?"

"This, Mistress, is Captain Jack Sparrow, late of the _Black Pearl_ ," said Shaftoe, rather more readily than Jack was comfortable with. "'Twas he that saved my life time and again, in the savage jungles of the New World." Mother Williams, noted Jack, was not much impressed by this. "And he," Shaftoe rushed on, "that brought me back to London Town, with marvels and wonders to show and to trade."

"Go on, then," said Mother Williams, standing foursquare in the door and folding her arms. From behind her came a twittering sound, as of downy chicks smothered beneath their parent.

"I fear our errand's in vain, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack sweetly, eyes downcast. "Why, 'tis evident that this lady has no need of such remedy as we bring, and I doubt she keeps company with any soul that suffers so."

"Remedy?" said Mother Williams. "What remedy's that, then?" She peered more closely at Jack Shaftoe, who swept off his hat to allow light (and rain) full access to his phiz, and beamed at her.

"You're looking ... well, Jack Shaftoe," said Mother Williams slowly at last, in what seemed to Jack a masterpiece of understatement. Shaftoe, tanned and burnished by the Caribbean sun, beaming with good humour and carnal satisfaction, looked ten times healthier to Jack than any Londoner he'd seen. He shifted from foot to foot, irritably, and tried to angle his own hat so as not to funnel rainwater down beneath his collar.

"Never better, Mistress," said Shaftoe sunnily. "For I was Pox'd, and now ..."

"Come in," said Mother Williams, stepping aside. "Both of you, come in."


	17. European Physick, Chapter Seventeen

  


The common-room of Mother Williams’ establishment was warm, the fire snapping merrily; in the evening, Jack was sure, the deep red upholstery on all the over-stuffed chaises-longues and the ornately patterned carpets would look rich and fine. Daylight, unfortunately, had a tendency to highlight the worn threads, the faded edges, and the unmentionable stains. The room smelt of stale perfume and yesterday’s ale.

Mother Williams ushered them in, bade them sit by the fire. Half a dozen girls were in there already, sleepy and mussed, pale and yawning, but smiling up at their visitors as if they were entirely delighted by their presence so early in the day; professionals, Jack noted with approval, as the one next to him heaved a pretty sigh that strained at the laces of her half-fastened bodice. Shaftoe greeted them all in a general way (several of them seemed to know him, and Jack found himself grinding his teeth) and then asked, “And where, dear ladies, is the lovely Flora?”

A blonde wisp of a thing pouted at him, and said, “Oh, Jack, why’s it always Flora, eh?”

Always? Jack suddenly hated Flora with a passion.

“She’s coming, she’s coming; Bessie, go an’ hurry Flora up, will you? And Jane too, she ain’t here,” said the madam, smacking the wisp on her behind with a huge red-knuckled hand. The girl scarpered, but halfway up the stairs she stopped, as two others appeared on the landing.

“Jack!” cried the first, and “Why, Flora!” called Jack Shaftoe, with the sunniest smile on his face. Flora fairly skipped down the stairs, and threw herself into Shaftoe’s arms.

Jack knew whores were s’posed to be shameless, but for the love of God, this was surely unnecessary. He was appalled to find himself taking inventory of the trollop; and despite the businesslike observation of a hastily applied patch that did not quite cover a pox-sore on her neck, he was more appalled to note that she had the curly black hair, the big dark eyes, the slight and curvy figure, the pinkly kissable mouth, of Jack Shaftoe’s Imaginary Girl.

It had not occurred to Jack for even a moment that the Imaginary Girl could be based upon anyone save his good self. No. Surely not? _Surely?_

“Oh, Jack, I din’t think we’d ever see you again, darlin’! Where’ve you bin? Were you with that Alchemist the whole time?”

“Flora, my sweet, it’s a tale and a half.” Shaftoe hugged her back and even let her pull him down for a lingering kiss. (God dammit, she was wanton too.) The other girls giggled, and Mother Williams said, “Mr Shaftoe, you stop right there; ‘less you’re goin’ to show me the colour of your money.”

Shaftoe straightened up, and said, “Well, Flora—Mother—ladies—we do indeed have a tale to tell you, if you’ve time.”

“’Course we do! It’s early yet, ain’t it?”

Flora settled into a sofa, patting the seat beside her; but Jack Shaftoe sat himself down on the floor at her feet, peering up at the circle of whispering, admiring girls. Mother Williams deposited herself in the high-backed armchair to the left of the fireplace. Jack took the seat beside Flora and, when she turned her bright gaze on him, took her hand and kissed it, introducing himself.

“Oh, yes—sorry, Jack,” said Shaftoe, belatedly. “Flora, Jack; Jack, Flora.”

Flora gave Jack the sweetest, shyest, warmest glance from under her eyelashes and actually managed a blush, never mind that she’d been draped all over Shaftoe less than a minute previous. She was clearly a very very _good_ whore. Jack was impressed despite himself.

“Jack says he’s got a Pox Cure,” said Mother Williams briskly, getting straight to business.

Bessie groaned in disappointment and Flora said, “Oh, Jack, get on with you; we’ve better ways to entertain ourselves, surely, than talking nonsense.”

“Talk nonsense? _Me_?” said Shaftoe with a grin. “Oh no, Ladies, I assure you. This ain’t nonsense. This Cure comes from the deepest jungles of Guyana, in the New World; and it’s real as can be. It ain’t the mercury, or the sweating; it’s a real med’cine, and it ain’t pleasurable, but it works. And we—Jack an’ I—are proof of that. For we’ve taken the cure, and months later here we are, not a symptom between us. Not one.”

Mother Williams looked dubious. “Not quicksilver? Quicksilver’s all that works, ain’t it?”

“That don’t _work_ ,” Jack put in. “An’ it’s worse than the bloody disease, if you’ll pardon my strong language, ladies. Nearly did for me, the quicksilver did, ‘fore we found the real solution.”

A murmur of agreement ran around the room as to the attendant miseries of the mercury cure.

“There’s two parts to this cure,” said Shaftoe. “The first’s simple; a tea, that must be drunk twice a day for a week or so. Which, I won’t lie to you, does have the odd… side-effect. The second… well, girls, I won’t pretend it’s simple, nor pleasant neither. Jack, shall we demonstrate?” He leaned his head back, looked upside-down at Jack. Grinning.

“By all means,” said Jack, who was always keen for a little Exhibition. He stood, and pulled Shaftoe to his feet. Side by side, backs to the fire, they took off their coats and pulled aside weskits and shirts; the girls giggled and squeaked, and Mother Williams scowled, and demanded to know what the blazes they thought they were doin’, as if her poor girls hadn’t seen more and worse a dozen times a day.

“There: see that?” said Jack Shaftoe, pushing the waist of his breeches down to his hip, and showing the pale scar on his still-tanned skin. The girls came closer, curious as kittens. Jack bared himself, too, and Flora crouched in front of him, putting out a small, chilly finger and running it over the scar. Her breath was warm on Jack’s belly. Shaftoe shifted closer, till their shoulders were touching, and Jack grinned to himself at this small sign of possessiveness.

“’Tis where we bore the _guaiacum_ , the wood that draws the poison,” said Shaftoe.

“Wood? You want to stick my lovelies full of _wood_?” wailed Mother Williams, throwing up her hands in horror. “Jack Shaftoe, you’re a bloody lunatick, and dangerous to boot!”

“It’s not such a big cut,” said Flora, tracing the line on Jack’s abdomen. (Curses! She was brave as well!) “And if it works, Mother—”

“An’ how could we know that? What’ve we got save Jack Shaftoe’s word, and him the biggest scoundrel ever to set foot in this house?”

Shaftoe didn’t object to this description of himself, in fact seemed rather pleased by it. “That’s just exactly why we came here!” he cried happily. “For you, Flora—if I may be so bold as to note it in public—are partick’ly familiar with every inch of my corpus, and its various blemishes, sores, chancres et cetera. Are you not?”

A wave of laughter. Flora was not the slightest bit abashed. “I certainly am, darlin’!” she cried, and stood, giving Jack a wink that he could not quite interpret.

“Then you, Flora, must examine me now, with the greatest of care and in minute detail; and then you can report to your colleagues whether, in your professional opinion, I’m still a man Pox’d,” said Jack Shaftoe triumphantly.

Despite the bilious jealousy in his belly, Jack had to admit that this was a good Sales Pitch. Flora certainly didn’t seem to object to it either.

“What a plan, Jack! Come on, then, off wi’ your shirt.”

“Christ Almighty,” said Jack Shaftoe, looking wide-eyed around his audience. “Not in front of everyone, Flora. I suggest we retire to your room, for modesty’s sake. With your permission, of course, Mother.”

This was granted, though somewhat reluctantly; Jack deduced a salacious curiosity in Mother William’s tone, and really, who would want to pass up the chance to examine naked Jack Shaftoe?

Flora linked arms with Shaftoe and set off up the stairs; Jack followed behind. Shaftoe stopped.

“Jack? What’re you doing?” he demanded.

“What d’you mean? I’m coming up for the Inspection.”

“No you ain’t,” said Shaftoe, scowling as though Jack’d proposed throwing him down and buggering him in front of the assembled trollops.

Nothing to be gained by getting angry at him, though. To Flora, Jack said sweetly, “Don’t you want to examine me, too, darlin’? Seein’ as how I’ve been similarly cured? Two’s a better proof than one.”

“I’ll examine you!” cried a gratifying number of girls from down below. Jack grinned.

“What’s the point? She never saw you before the Cure,” said Shaftoe through gritted teeth.

“P’rhaps not,” said Flora pertly, “but I’ve got a good imagination. Come on then, darlin’.” And she held out a hand to Jack, and led them both upstairs.

*

Damn Jack Sparrow, and damn hot-blooded little Flora!

‘T’wasn’t that Jack didn’t understand her urge to see Sparrow bared, but still. He did not, he really did not, want to be naked in a whore’s boudoir with Jack Sparrow. Not with Swift Nick Nevison’s rumours doing the rounds; a highwayman’s network of gossips might be effective enough, but next to a whore’s, it was nothing.

Whatever happened, Jack was not touching Jack Sparrow in front of Flora. Oh no. No no no.

The heavy velvet curtains were still drawn in Flora’s room, her bed still an unmade mess of pillows and blankets, giving up a heady smell of the past night’s carousings. She threw the curtains open, and drew Jack over by the window.

“There,” she said. “Where I c’n see.” She knelt upon the bed, and Sparrow threw himself down beside her; the two of them regarded him with disturbingly similar voracious expressions.

“Come on, Jack,” said Sparrow. “Take it off, mate. Show her.”

Jack pulled off his boots, and began unbuttoning his weskit. Sparrow licked his lips.

Christ, there was something heady about stripping himself bare in front of these two. Both of ‘em having seen him before, having brought him to the deepest sorts of delights in their own ways. (He shucked off his weskit.) And the way Flora kept looking at Sparrow: oh, how easy it’d be, how delicious, to convince them that the three of them together could entertain each other most mightily. (He started to loosen the ties of his shirt.) Flashes of wicked visions sparked in his head, twisty combinations of limbs and bodies, pale smooth flesh pressed against sun-dark muscle, mouths and hands and cocks and Flora’s warm moist welcome, her slickness on Jack’s yard as good as grease or, Christ, on Sparrow’s yard, and Jack’s wicked head shewed him the clearest picture of fucking Flora even as Jack Sparrow’s prick pressed into Jack himself.

“I do believe he’s enjoying this!” said Flora, nudging Sparrow, and Jack’s face burned as he looked down at the state of his trowsers. He tried to grin. “Take it as a compliment, love,” he told her.

“Oh, I do, Jack; I do.” She crept forward to the edge of the bed, and as he pulled his shirt over his head she began to undo his trowser-buttons, letting her wrist rub against his stiff yard.

Jack looked over her head to Sparrow, who was lounging on a pile of pillows, licking his bottom lip and then dragging it between his teeth till it was plump and swollen. Jack yearned to bite it.

Oh, this was delicious agony; Flora pushing his clothes away, her soft hands sliding down his thighs, her breath gusty and warm on his prick. Behind her, out of her sight, Jack Sparrow shamelessly running his hand up the line of his own prick, heavy in his breeches. _Can’t fuck either of ‘em, Jack. She’s poxed and he’s… forbidden._

“Look,” he said to Flora, pointing to a place in the crease of his groin. “’Member there? There was always a mark coming up there, soon as the bastard thing went it was back again. Nothing now, see?”

Flora stroked the place gently and looked up him with moistened lips. “It’s perfect,” she murmured, and put her mouth to it.

“Oi,” said Jack Sparrow hypocritically. “That, missy, isn’t the point of the exercise.”

Flora turned, and put her head on one side when she saw Sparrow’s own obvious enthusiasm. “Cain’t an exercise have more than one point, Captain?” she said. “Or… p’rhaps you’d like to join me in the ‘zamination of Mr Shaftoe here? Is that it?”

Sparrow’s mouth started to curve up into a smile.

“No!” said Jack, rather more loudly than he’d intended, and Flora stared up at him in surprise. “No,” he reiterated, “Captain Sparrow does not want to examine me, Flora. You’re doing fine on your own.”

Oh, the bright bitterness in Sparrow’s stare! Jack tried to tell him by look alone that this was not the time, not the place; that for both their sakes, it shouldn’t be done.

Sparrow did not look away, did not smile, as he said, “Oh, Flora, it ain’t Mr Shaftoe that’s making me feel this way. Not at all. Mr Shaftoe and me, why, we’re mad for _girls_ ; it’s terrible rude of you to imply elsewise.”

“I’m sure I din’t mean to be rude,” said Flora, perking up no end at the implication that it was solely due to her own charms that two such handsome men were a) hard as stone and b) soon to be naked and c) in her room. She rubbed her cheek (so smooth, so peachy smooth) along Jack’s yard, and beckoned Jack Sparrow. “Come on then, sweetheart, lose all those clothes; I’ve to ‘zamine you an’ all, ain’t that what I’m s’posed to be doing?”

Sparrow swung his legs off the bed, stood. He started undressing; Flora stared. Sparrow waved a hand at her, grinning. “You just carry on there, love; pay attention to Mr Shaftoe, and I’ll be ready for you in a tick.”

Flora’s cunning hands were wreaking gorgeous havoc on Jack’s privities; Jack Sparrow was undressing himself, slow and sweet and never taking his eyes from Jack. Not even when Flora’s kisses joined her hands; not even when her mouth opened wide and took Jack inside, and Jack let her. Because he could, and she wanted it; because he could not say no without provoking her suspicions.

Naked at last, stroking his own cock and staring, staring, staring, Jack Sparrow watched Jack bury his hands in Flora’s curls and fuck her mouth; and when Flora, feeling him come close, let go long enough to gasp _But Jack, darlin’, don’t you want a fuck?_ (and then, when Jack declined, _Oh but please, I—!_ ) it was Jack Sparrow who climbed up behind her where she knelt on the bed and reached round beneath her shift.

Jack groaned as she parted her knees and hummed approval, was dizzy at the thought of what Sparrow’s fingers would find there: the sweet, fuckable, slippery swell of her. Sparrow smiled up at Jack (oh god so close, so close, so—) and the muscles of his forearm slid beneath his skin as he made her tremble and writhe, made her dig her fingers deep and sharp into Jack’s buttocks, made her pull him close and deep and suck him greedily, made her whimper, all muffled and gagged by Jack’s prick as he spent deliciously in her throat. One hand on her head, one—oh let her not notice—on Jack Sparrow’s.

As Jack, released, staggered back against the wall, wicked Jack Sparrow pulled Flora back onto his lap, the one kneeling atop the other, Flora’s shift all rucked and lifted and Sparrow’s dear cunning hand reaching round in front of her, up between her thighs, as she closed her eyes and rested her head back on his shoulder, biting her lip, her hips twisting and wriggling.

And Jack stared and stared and could think of nothing, nothing, but where Jack Sparrow’s cock might be, invisible there between them; or p’rhaps invisible in _her_ , in poor sweet Flora. In Flora who was pox’d, and a whore, and worst of all was not Jack Shaftoe.


	18. European Physick, Chapter Eighteen

  
  
Oh, this was indeed a fine pair of gentlemen! And though Flora was sure that Mother Williams would have her payment for this 'inspection', one way or another, she couldn't -- sprawled there sweating and grinning 'tween the two of 'em -- bring herself to mind giving it away for free.

The dark fellow -- Sparrow -- was caressing her shoulders and her breasts, though he was careful not to touch the sore places where the Pox was making itself known again. Oh, he was a fine one! As handsome in his way as Jack Shaftoe, though 'twas a very different kind of handsomeness: a dark lithe exotic kind, painted and inked and scarred. Flora gazed at him admiringly, but he did not seem to notice her fondness. His attention, for the moment, was all on Jack Shaftoe.

Flora couldn't deny that it was a fine thing, to have Jack Shaftoe back in her bed, brighter and more burnished than before. Perhaps it was the way the sun had darkened his skin (though it wasn't near as dark as this Captain Sparrow's: why, he was coloured like a Moor!) and bleached his hair. Though her Jack'd clearly been in the wars -- his poor finger! and all these fresh new scars -- he did not seem diminished by his sufferings. _He_ was smiling at her, sunnier and more cheerful than ever, and he didn't seem to give a fig for his mate's frown.

"Tell me about this Cure, then," said Flora, tracing the long white scar on Jack Shaftoe's muscled hip. "I can't believe it's true, Jack: but here you are, darling, all hale and healthy! Did it hurt?"

"Oh, you should've heard him when the wood came out," murmured Sparrow, his deft fingers spiralling 'round Flora's navel. "Surprised you _didn't_ , in fact: for he made enough of a racket to be heard --"

"Oi!" protested Shaftoe, reddening. "An' I s'pose _you_ never cried out at all, eh?"

"What? ... Oh, when the _wood_ was drawn out of me." Sparrow rested his chin on Flora's arm, and smiled lazily at Jack Shaftoe. "I'm sure I was silent as the grave."

Shaftoe flushed more, and pretended great interest in a curly lock of Flora's hair. "Leave it," he said sullenly. "Flora, my love?"

"Yes, Jack?" said Flora sweetly, wriggling as Sparrow's fingers pinched a fold of skin.

"Captain Sparrow and I have business with Mother Williams, below," said Jack Shaftoe. "Might I prevail upon you, darlin', to dress yourself and accompany us? For it's your Testimonial that we require, to convince the old -- I mean, to convince the lady of our Cure's validity."

"Testimonial, eh?" said Flora, with a sly caress of Shaftoe's privities. "Oooh, but perhaps I'd better conduct some further 'zaminations, eh?"

"We haven't time for that," said Sparrow coldly. _His_ prick seemed immune to Flora's exploratory touch: and now he was sitting up, reaching for his shirt, giving her a look most unfriendly, considering how very affectionate he'd been not twenty minutes before.

Flora pouted, and turned to Jack Shaftoe for reassurance.

"Jack's right," said that gentleman regretfully, pushing himself upright and dropping a kiss on the hollow of her throat. "We'd best to business, darling: but permit me to say that 'tis always a _pleasure_ , with you."

Flora smiled, and giggled. "Likewise, Mr S," she said. "An' I do hope, Jack, that you'll be back to call on me, now that you're home." She turned her back on Jack's peculiar friend, hoping that the limitations of her invitation were plain: stole a glance over her shoulder to see if he'd understood her.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll drop by again," said Sparrow, knotting his shirt-lace. His smile was sharp, and the glimmer of gold did nothing to warm it. "If _business_ brings us this way."

Flora narrowed her eyes at him, but he wasn't looking at her. He scooped up Shaftoe's shirt from the floor, and chucked it at its owner. "C'mon, Mr Shaftoe: it's after noon already, and we've negotiations yet to be ... negotiated."

Flora pulled on a bodice and a skirt over her stained, still-damp shift, and shepherded the two of them downstairs. Probably best not to mention that she usually charged double for two: their recent amusements, after all, had been merely incidental to the matter at hand. And 'twas true enough, from all she'd seen (and felt!) that neither gentleman sported chancres or sores or other Pox-signs, though both had clearly suffered more than one outbreak. Perhaps, after all, there was some truth in their claims.

But there was a tension between them, something that was not a matter of fraud or haste or venery. Something complicated and difficult in the way that her Jack looked at this Sparrow, when he thought she wasn't watching. Something awry in the set of Sparrow's shoulders as he stalked ahead of them down the narrow stairs. Flora had known men enough to recognise all sorts of lies and misbehaviours: but this was something she had not seen before, and she could not put a name to it.

No use in worrying at it, and nobody wanted a sullen whore: bad for business, it was, and there was business aplenty to be done today. Flora made herself think of weeping sores, of flayed ulcers and the hard burning knots of Pox-carbuncles: and when she entered the common-room, and met Mother Williams' glare, she was able to say quite soberly that the gentlemen were clean.

* * *

"Well, now," said the old bawd, showing her gappy gums and blackened pegs in a travestied leer. "So you've found a cure for the French disease, have you?"

Jack Sparrow bowed, and smiled his most ingratiating smile, making sure that Flora caught the warm glitter of it. His head ached, and the mulled wine that Jane -- simpering prettily -- had brought him did nothing to dispel the chill within. "We have, Madame," he said. "And my colleague here assures me that you're extraordinarily well-placed to help bring word of it to where it's needed most."

Mother Williams looked around at her brood, all beady-eyed and intent. "How much for the lot of 'em?" she said bluntly.

"Oh," said Shaftoe, before Jack could stop him, "shall we say ten pounds apiece?"

Jack winced at the shrill outcry this evoked: but the longer they were given to complain, the more easily they'd come to his way of thinking, and so he gritted his teeth, sat back down in his chair, and drained his glass to the dregs.

"As it happens," he said, when the lamentations had begun to die away, "we've another proposition for you, ladies."

"Oh?" said Mother Williams, sharp as glass. "And what's that, then?" She glanced around at the girls. "Pleasure without payment, is it?"

"Not at all," snapped Jack, forbearing to add that he'd more _particular_ tastes. "There is a way," he said more amiably, "in which we all may profit, and have our health besides. Mr Shaftoe, if you'd be so kind as to set out the Business Plan?"

There was no sign, not the slightest indication, that Jack Shaftoe was assailed by guilt, or regret, or frustration: no eloquent glances at Jack, no lack of good cheer. He sprang up from the sofa where he'd been sitting next to that Flora -- and really, Jack could not blame her for her fond expression: could not, but _did_ \-- and said, "'Tis all a matter of Introductions."

"Introductions to who?" said Mother Williams.

"Why, Mother, to those noblemen and courtiers who, if I remember rightly, are oft-times guests in your fine establishment!" cried Shaftoe, as though it should be obvious. Jack looked around dubiously. The decor did not seem especially lavish, and though the girls were surprisingly young and cheerful, Jack'd seen better. Yet Shaftoe had been adamant: Mother Williams' house catered to the great and the good, to Members of Parliament, to Lords and Judges and the like. In short, to the gentry: to the rich.

"Or perhaps," Jack said, unable to resist the urge to annoy Mother Williams, "your clientele no longer includes that Quality to which Mr Shaftoe, here, has so often alluded? Fashions change so very rapidly, after all." And he turned a pitying look upon the nearest whore.

"Oh no, sir!" she protested. "Why, only last night the Bishop of --"

"That'll be enough, Meg!" cried Mother Williams. "We prefer, Captain, not to name any names. You would not credit, sir, what value a gentleman places on discretion."

"Oh, you'd be surprised what I'd credit, Madame," said Jack. Blackmail, too! Perhaps it was time to diversify: piracy all very well, but surprisingly time-consuming. He shot a glance at Shaftoe, and was immensely gratified to find Shaftoe gazing at _him_. Jack smiled, and Shaftoe -- surely, just for an instant? -- grinned back.

Much heartened, Jack went on. "Well, Mother Williams, the scheme we have in mind is a simple one, and yet efficacious. We, Mr Shaftoe and I, will instruct you in the use of the Cure, and sell you its ingredients -- ingredients that, I assure you, cannot be found this side of the Atlantic -- for, oh, let's say nine pounds a shot."

"That's ten per cent discount," said Shaftoe obligingly. Flora giggled as though Jack Shaftoe were some Mathematickal Prodigy: or perhaps because of Shaftoe's hand on her shapely leg.

"Nine quid!" cried Mother Williams. "Daylight robbery!"

Jack smiled, and bowed, and held his tongue.

"And what of my poor girls?" said Mother Williams, mopping a phant'sied tear from her painted cheek. "Doomed to suffer and die, even while they sell the means of their salvation!"

"Well," said Shaftoe, glancing over at Jack uncertainly, "you wouldn't want 'em all taking the Cure at once."

"Why's that, then?" demanded the bawd.

"Well," said Shaftoe, staring down at the carpet as though embarrassed (though Jack was sure he could see laughter crinkling the corner of Shaftoe's blue eye), "speaking from mine own experience, Mother, it does take away -- temporarily, but quite utterly -- the ... how shall I say?" He put his finger to his lips, drawing Jack's eyes irresistably to, oh, that mouth. "The _Desire_ ," decided Shaftoe.

"What's that mean?" piped up Jane.

"Well, darling," said Jack, determined to distract attention from Jack Shaftoe His Mouth, "it's Lust, you see, or strictly speaking its Lack: you'll lose the urge, not to mention the inclination."

"Oh," said Jane brightly, "that's no matter: for I'll pretend it, as I always -- " She broke off in confusion: but the other girls were laughing, and Jane amid her blushes chuckled too.

* * *

"A pretty scene indeed," spat Sparrow, as soon as the two of them were out in the street once more.

"What?" said Jack. The rain had stopped, but there was mud aplenty underfoot, and traffic enough to splatter it everywhere. He'd be mired to the knees by the time they reached the river. "An excellent bit of work, wasn't it?"

Sparrow -- Jack phant'sied he could see the man bristling like an angry cat -- stalked beside him. "Work, was it, Mr Shaftoe?" he said. "Oooh yes, you were _working_ most extraordinarily hard with yon strumpet: I could see the effort you were spending on it. Or, no, don't tell me: it was all pretence, just as that flibbertigibbety Jane confessed? You should be on the stage, Mr Shaftoe: I never saw an actor with half your gift for playacting."

Now Jack was torn several ways: there was something gloriously untrammelled in Sparrow's mockery, and it'd be a fine thing to mock him back, to fight and bicker and then to make up, kiss and make up and make sure of one another. (A brief, delicious reverie there, that took Jack quite out of himself, and out of muddy Stoney Street.) But they were a mile or more from their lodging, and Jack did not care to make a spectacle of himself, much less of his ... friendship with the eccentric Captain Sparrow. Bob's words still rang in his head, and Nevison's foul and vicious (though perfectly accurate) gossip was surely running riot all round the globe by now. No use in giving it more fuel.

Or he might crow with glee at Sparrow's obvious envy: there was a cold green ache around his own heart, still, from watching Sparrow with Flora, and the knowledge that he'd woken its twin in Sparrow's breast did much to warm and melt it away. What surer proof of Jack's own sentiment, and Sparrow's too? Though, again, this was hardly the place for such avowals.

So, reluctantly, he took the third approach: said, "Jack, we'll not talk of this here: but, believe it or not, I'd no thought of doing thus, and what I did was not what I desir'd."

He rather liked the ring of this: but Sparrow fixed him with a cold stare, and said, "Aye, you and young Jane both."

"Are you calling me a whore?" demanded Jack, leaning close in the hope that none of the passers-by would hear.

"If the cap fits, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow coolly. "But as a matter of fact, I was merely drawing attention to your evident _enjoyment_ of the transactions just concluded, and querying your claim that 'twas nothing but business."

"Enjoyment, is it?" fleered Jack. "You fucked her!"

"Why should I not? You'd occupied her mouth!"

A grinning link-boy turned to stare. Jack snarled a curse: took hold of Sparrow's shoulder, though the pirate tried to twist away, and hustled him down an alleyway towards the river-noise.

"D'you want to apprise all London of it?" he snapped. "There's me claiming to be in perfect health, all cured: she'd have been suspicious if I'd done nothing. And anyway," he said, perceiving an opportunity to regain the advantage, "I didn't care to fuck her, for she's poxed."

"Aye," said Sparrow flatly. Jack let him go, now that they were away from Stoney Street and its traffic. This narrow alleyway was empty of eavesdroppers, save for a mangy cat washing itself on a step. "Aye," said Sparrow again, sharp and bitter now. "And so was I when first you fucked _me_."

"So were we both," said Jack, his skin warming with the remembrance. "And I din't care," he said fiercely. "I wanted you then: an' it's you I want now."

"'Twasn't me you had, in there," said Sparrow, and he licked his lips with such blatant provocation that Jack was eager to take hold of him again and, and --

"Jack," he said, "it ain't safe. They're talking of me. Of us. That weasel Nevison ... They c'n hang us for it, Jack: and I'd as soon live, and sail away. With you."

The clouds were thickening overhead, but Sparrow was smiling again, warmer than any London sunshine. "Anyhow," he said sweetly, "I didn't fuck her. I'm ... saving m'self."

Jack did not know why this admission should give him such relief, but he was grateful for it. "Are we right, then?" he said, beaming.

"Aye," said Sparrow. "Now, Mr Shaftoe, let's make our separate ways: for you've to take ship -- I beg your pardon, _boat_ \-- to Limehouse, was it not?"

"To call on bloody Bob," said Jack, pulling a face. "I'll not be long. And what of you, Jack? What'll you do?"

"Oh," said Sparrow, staring out across the river, "I've other business."


	19. European Physick, Chapter Nineteen

  


Jamie, arms filled, wrestled his way through the door into the dark of the hallway and shut it behind himself with a bump of his hip. Eyes still adjusting to the indoor gloom, he peered up the stairs as a laughing voice said, “Lord, Jamie, the merchants of London must think Christmas has come again, wi’ all the money you’re stuffing into their pockets!”

John Burton and Djagdao were coming down, pulling on hats and scarves. Jamie grinned and shrugged, though it was scarcely visible with such a bulk of parcels in his arms.

“You can’t take it with you, John; no point in having it if you don’t use it!”

“Well, there’s a good motto for your life!” said John, with a sly look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, these are thin walls.” John’s face was straight, but there was laughter in his eyes.

“I’d noticed as much,” said Jamie, with innocently raised eyebrows. “Where’s Will?”

“He ain’t come out.”

“I went to paint him,” said Djagdao, “to make him… bright, for tonight; but he sleeps still.”

Jamie nodded sagely. This news was quite delightful on several counts; firstly, it meant that Will was delivering on his promise to let Jamie touch up his inkwork. Secondly, it meant that Will was still abed, in their warm little room. It’d been cold out; Jamie felt in need of some thawing.

“Oh well,” he said blithely. “I’d lay he’ll wake up for presents, eh? Are the Jacks back?”

John frowned, looking awf’ly like Mr Turner. “That ain’t a way to speak of your Captain, Jamie.”

“’Pologies, Mr Burton, I’m sure. Are Captain Sparrow and Mr Shaftoe returned from their business?” said Jamie, excessively polite, to let John know he was being stuffy. They weren’t aboard ship now, were they? It wasn’t that the Captain’s authority didn’t hold, but there was surely no call for all that Navy-ish nonsense. Jamie’d had enough of that to last him two lifetimes.

“No, not yet.”

“Oh well. An’ where are you fellows off to?”

“Thought we’d go an’ have a look at the Tower; Djagdao ain’t seen anything like that afore, I’ll warrant. T’ain’t far, is it?”

“No, no…” Jamie turned and nodded in an east-sou’easterly direction. “Down the street, an’ take Mincing Lane, that’ll lead you to Tower Street, an’ if you can’t find it then, why, there’s something amiss wi’ the pair of you.”

John swatted at him, and Jamie hopped out of the way and darted past them, calling goodbyes as he ran up the stairs, up to the minuscule back room to which he and Will (as a result of John’s nominally outranking Jamie in the _Pearl_ ’s rather vague hierarchy, and not-nominally-at-all outranking him in terms of size and ability to fight for what he wanted) had been relegated. Not that Jamie minded; for a space of their very own, a space big enough for a mattress and even a tiny window, was a luxury after all. And better than that—far better, in Will’s books—it’d transpired that their room sat right above the cookshop’s great ovens. The bricks of its back wall were the bricks of the chimney, and the rich buttery smells of pies and pastries seeped up with the heat.

Jamie knocked on the door with his forehead, and freed a couple of fingers to open it as he called, “Will? It’s me, I’m back!”

The low nooning sun was angling through the high window, shining down on the Indian as he sat up in the messy nest of their bed, rubbing sleepily at his face. His hair was all awry, his mouth all plump from sleep and his eyes still dark with it; but he smiled when he saw Jamie, a slow certain smile that warmed Jamie deep in the pit of his stomach.

Jamie kicked the door closed, and let his bundles fall and bounce onto the mattress in a papery heap. He knelt down and pressed his cold lips to Will’s warm ones, and Will made a dismayed sound, and put his palms to Jamie’s wind-pinked cheeks.

“You are cold! Very cold!”

“Oh, not for long,” said Jamie with a wink, and tugged off his boots, tossing them into the corner and scrambling down under the blankets. Will shouted and jerked as if he were lightning-struck, laughing and pushing him away: “Your coat is cold, your feet are cold, you are a man of snow!”

“Warm me up, then!” Jamie demanded, reaching for him; and they tussled briefly, huffing with laughter, as Jamie tried to penetrate the woolly depths of the bed and Will to repulse him; but Will was not trying very hard, and soon turned his efforts to the removal of the offending articles, viz. Jamie’s damp coat and cap, in lieu of the offending body. He pulled Jamie down, right down, into the dark musty warmth beneath the blankets, dragging the blankets up over their heads and holding Jamie close, winding his arms around and kissing him with a greedy open mouth, as if he could breathe heat into him; which, apparently, he could, for Jamie could feel his toes again, tingling as the blood came back. Will still wore his shirt and breeches (said it was to protect his paint, though the truth was he was too cold sleeping bare, despite all Jamie’s best attempts at persuasion) but the heat of him oozed through them, sunny and delicious. Jamie pushed closer, and slid one chilly hand up under the back of Will’s shirt. Will gasped, and knee’d Jamie in the thigh.

“Hush,” teased Jamie. “It’ll warm in a moment, you great girl.”

“I am no girl,” Will said, twisting his hips in illustration, and Jamie hummed his approval. Wondered how long they had before the Jacks were back.

“You will ruin my paintings,” Will said, not very reprovingly.

“Ah, but then I can fix ‘em for you,” said Jamie. “Promise.” He licked gently at Will’s ear. “I brought you presents. Don’t you want to see what they are?”

He could feel Will smiling against his cheek. “I do; but to see them, I would have to let you go.” His grip on Jamie’s waist tightened, and he wound a leg around Jamie’s.

“Only for a moment,” said Jamie, not letting go himself.

“The price is too high. Tell me what they are; and then we can stay here, warm, together. Touching will make you warm.” And one of Will’s hands started exploring up under Jamie’s clothes, stroking his spine as Will began to lavish small kisses on his neck.

“What an excellent idea,” Jamie murmured. “Well, I bought you a blanket; a wonderful soft wool blanket that came all the way from Scotland, an’ it’s thick and warm as any I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” came indistinctly between kisses. Jamie squirmed as Will’s tongue moved up to the sensitive spot by his ear.

“And gloves, Will, that’re lined wi’ marten, that’s the finest fur.”

“You should have worn them,” said Will, and Jamie laughed, and slipped his other cold hand down over the clenching muscles of Will’s abdomen, down into his breeches, to his hipbone, and Will writhed and laughed and complained and let him; fell silent, but for a sigh, as Jamie ran the back of a finger up the hardening length of him.

“An’ I bought you plumcake,” Jamie whispered, and he ran his fingertip around the head of Will’s shaft.

“Wha—what is plumcake?”

“Plum’s a fruit. Plumcake’s… oh, it tastes of honey an’ sun, it’s sweet, you’ll like it.”

“Then you are plumcake,” said Will very softly, licking Jamie’s neck; and he did not make it sound like a joke.

Jamie wrapped his warmed fingers around Will’s cock and stroked long and firm, and the Indian began tugging at Jamie’s breeches. Jamie wriggled and lifted and kicked and sighed with delight to feel the woolly scratch of the blankets on his skin, the stroke of Will’s palms over his arse. He nuzzled at Will, finding his mouth again, kissing him deeper, harder; a special pleasure always, with this man, for when they first met it was a strange thing to Will, to put his mouth on another’s. It was not a custom of his people. Jamie’d had the greatest trouble, convincing him that it might be a pleasant diversion; but now, oh now, Will could not get enough of Jamie’s mouth, and they’d spend long, delightful hours just kissing and grinding and stroking. And if Will’s kiss was a perfect thing, Jamie reflected smugly, he’d only himself to thank for it, being the man’s only teacher.

There in the dim warmth beneath the blankets they undressed one another, tasted one another, stroked every inch of skin that their hands could reach, ground their hips together till their blood was coursing hot and certain, hearts beating hard enough that the other could feel it where their chests met. The thin sunlight speckled its way through the rough weave of the blanket and shewed Will, beautiful Will, as dappled and dark as he had been in the forest; as he had been when Jamie’d first seen him and been instantly and utterly lost. And now look; now they were half-way round the wide world, and Will was his. All his.

Jamie rolled Will over on his back, and released his mouth, kissing his way down the Indian’s long throat, thinking to take him in his mouth; but Will stopped him, pulled him back up again and kissed him as he pushed his cock against Jamie’s hip.

“What?” Jamie whispered, all muzzy-headed. “Don’t you want me to?”

Will groaned as if the mere idea of not wanting it were a pain to him. “Always, Jamie. Always, but I… I am close, and your mouth would… but I want…” Will’s hands finished the sentence for him, palms splayed broad over Jamie’s arse.

“Say it. Say it,” Jamie muttered, grinding, pulsing, rubbing his face against Will’s neck, against sweat-sticky skin and long tangled strands of black hair that were his and Will’s, both knotted and twisted together.

Will said something in his own language, something quick and guttural; rolled them back onto their sides, then gently pushed Jamie down, onto his belly, and spread himself over Jamie’s back, warm, insistent, his cock pushing between Jamie’s thighs, and Jamie opened his legs, tilted his hips up. Will pushed Jamie’s hair away from his ear; put his mouth close, and whispered, “Let me take you. Let me _fuck_ you.”

The foreign obscenity, in that deep accented voice! Christ, it was just so…

“Yes… yes, Will, always yes…” Up on his elbows, Jamie twisted his head around blindly, searching for Will’s mouth, for his kiss that had never been given to any other.

*

It hadn’t taken Jack Sparrow long to get back to Fenchurch Street; they’d certainly taken the long way round, on the way to Mother Williams’ house. He took the stairs two at a time, and knocked peremptorily on Burton’s door.

No reply, though there was a sound from Martingale’s room, a muffled shuffling like a sackful of puppies. Jack redirected his attentions to Martingale’s door, a sharp rhythmic rat-a-tat-tat.

No reply.

“Don’t give me that,” Jack called testily. “I know you’re in there, I heard you. Open up!”

Nothing.

“Open up or I’m coming in anyway!” Middle of the afternoon, and that damn’d boy was lurking in here, up to no good with that Indian of his. Jack was assailed by a fit of something which he decided to interpret as righteous indignation, but secretly suspected was probably jealousy.

“Right, that’s it, here I come,” he said loudly, lifting the latch; “Wait!” came a breathy squeak from inside, and then a slightly more controlled, but oddly throaty, “Wait, Captain, just one moment, just… one…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” shouted Jack. It really was quite insupportable, after his frustrating morning with Jack Shaftoe and that bloody Flora, and Jack still with all his lusts unslaked. Was he the only man in London who wasn’t getting any relief today? This additional provocation was really too much. “In my room, Mr Martingale, and it better be damn’d quick!”

He did not wait for a reply.

 

 

“Captain?”

Peering round the doorway, Martingale looked suitably abashed, but no apologetic expression he wore could possibly make up for the glazed disarray of the pair of them. Hair all awry, shirt-tails out, mouths all swelly-red, still seeming to vibrate and glow with their pleasure. On Jamie Martingale it looked like the most natural thing in the world; on Will, it somehow looked like the wickedest decadence. Jack set his teeth and tried very hard not to recall how Jack Shaftoe looked, right _after_ ; that faintly astonished grin that he could never wipe away, the flush on his throat, the way he’d suddenly shiver, a minute or two minutes or four minutes later, as if his body were wracked by the memory of it.

“Get in here,” Jack said, and then, “For Christ’s sake, you’re barefoot, ain’t you freezing? No—” he held up a hand, “—spare me the details, I know, you’re all warmed up.”

Martingale smirked and the Indian flushed. “We had some plumcake,” said Martingale, obscurely. “How did your business go, Captain?”

“Fine,” growled Jack, trying so very hard _not_ to picture Jack Shaftoe, naked, being adored by that trollop Flora that he temporarily could think of nothing else at all.

“Is the Cure sold, then?”

“It will be. They’ll be sending a boy over tomorrow, with orders… have you written up those Prescriptions, yet, wi’ the instructions?”

“Um. I was, er, busy.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Impossible to get good help, these days. “Well, you’d better bloody get it done… but not right now, we’ve work to do. I need to go and see some disreputable fellows, and I suspect it’s a job that’s best not done alone. So I came to get some backup. Some muscle. Some intimidating fellows to stand behind me.” Jack looked them up and down in despair. “But Burton and Djagdao ain’t here an’ you’re all I’ve got, so I suppose you’ll have to do.”

The insult, disappointingly, washed over the pair of them and left no trace of its passing. “Who’re we going to see?” asked Martingale, attempting to be businesslike and tucking in his shirt.

“We’re going to track down Mr John Nevison,” said Jack.

“An’ get our money back, that he stole?”

“The money ain’t the half of what that blackguard’s taken from me,” Jack said darkly. “An’ it ain’t the half of what I want back.”


	20. European Physick, Chapter Twenty

  
  
They'd laid abed all morning, snug and warm beneath heavy blankets and an elderly fur coach-rug that harboured a lively colony of bugs. That was one problem you didn't get on board ship, not after the first week out: but John Burton had slept in enough doss-houses, and Djagdao had grown up in the Guyanan jungle, where bred monstrous parasites that'd gobble these shrunken English insects in a trice. Both men scratched themselves unthinkingly, from time to time, beneath their layered shirts and weskits, but they had not slept any less soundly for being bitten.

Come to that, they'd left worse marks (though better _memories_ ) on one another, and not made half the noise about it that their erstwhile shipmates had, last night. And since Captain Sparrow and Mr Shaftoe had gone out mid-morning, and Jamie Martingale had left not five minutes later on business of his own, Burton and Djagdao'd had no reason to rise from their bed, and plenty of causes to keep them there. In the end, though, hunger (and a certain restlessness) had driven them forth: and not before time, for they met young Jamie coming in, with an armful of parcels and a glitter in his eye to say he'd more in mind for that Will.

"The day is nearly gone," said Djagdao, peering up at the sky doubtfully as they emerged at last from the cookshop.

"Nah," said Burton, gnawing on a crust of warm, gritty bread. (Djagdao had made short work of his share.) "It's noon, for all the sun's so low in the sky."

"Then that is south?"

"Aye," said Burton. 'Twas an easy mistake to make, with the weak spring sun hidden behind a church-tower, and the shadows long already. "That's south, and we're bound ... that way." And, with more confidence than he truly felt (for this was his first time abroad, alone, in London Town) he led Djagdao across the rushing river of Fenchurch Street.

It took a while to find Mincing Lane, and Burton was sorely tempted to knock down one bloke who thought he'd make sport of the pair of them, sailors ashore: but he refrained, not knowing what the laws might be 'round here. And after all, the next person they asked -- a broad-shouldered woman hawking wizened winter apples from a basket -- was happy enough to direct them. Burton bought two apples from her, for a penny, and she blessed him.

"Your friend there," she said. "Is he from the fair, then?"

"No, mistress," said Burton. "This here's Djagdao, and he's from Guyana, which is all the way across the ocean."

Djagdao smiled at the woman, and she grinned back, gap-toothed and wide-eyed. "He understands!"

"He does," said Burton, glancing at Djagdao to see if he'd taken it amiss: but the Chibcha's smile was unshaken.

Burton remembered the sheaf of handbills in his pocket. "You may see him again, and another beside, this evening," he said, drawing out a bill and thrusting it at the apple-woman. "The talk of London, he is."

"Well!" said the woman: and next thing, there was a fellow in rough clothes at Burton's shoulder, his hand up. Burton tensed, and saw Djagdao's hand go to his own pocket and the knife hidden there. But the man was smiling, and he smiled more when Burton gave him a handbill of his own.

'Twas five minutes at least before they were free of the little crowd that'd grown up on the corner. Burton grabbed Djagdao's hand, and led him off the main street and onto Mincing Lane, a narrower, smellier, muddier street, with room for them to walk side by side.

Burton sighed, relieved. "Have an apple," he said, pulling said object from his pocket.

Djagdao devoured the fruit in three or four ravening mouthfuls. "Sweet," he said, chewing. "Those people were looking at me."

"Aye, like in the show," said Burton. "Like I do."

Djagdao smiled back at him, a proper smile rather than a polite grimace. "Am I truly so strange?" he said.

"You're a man like any other," said Burton, feeling himself flush at the thought, the vivid memory. "But folk'll look at anything that's new. And so," he said more brightly, remembering the purpose of their excursion, "so shall you and I, mate."

"What is this Tower?" said Djagdao.

"Oh, 'tis a great fortress," said Burton, parrotting what he'd heard in the inn the other night. "A castle and a prison and a palace, too. But there's all manner of things to see there, Djagdao ..."

John Burton was not a natural storyteller, and he knew he hadn't his Captain's knack for weaving a tale from scraps and inventions. But it was not far to the Tower, and the two of them had reached the muddy plain of Tower Hill before he'd quite finished telling of the lords and ladies who'd met their end there.

"And are we to see such ... executions?" said Djagdao, thin-lipped.

"Course not," said Burton cheerfully. "You know how they all pay their sixpences to come an' see you an' Will, mate?"

"Yes," said Djagdao doubtfully, eyeing the towering, soot-blackened walls of the Tower as they approached the gate.

"Well, we're payin' sixpence to see a different Entertainment," said Burton: and from a pocket deep within his coat he produced a battered silver shilling, and paid admittance for the two of them to the great Tower of London.

 

* * *

Perhaps this was how it'd been for those men (and women) who came, from time to time, in search of Captain Jack Sparrow; though they, surely, had not been mired to the knee as they trudged from tavern to inn to coaching-stop, asking after the object of their quest. And Jack Sparrow sincerely hoped that they'd encountered friendlier innkeepers, more potable beverages, more bloody _cooperation_ than he, with Martingale and Will trailing obligingly at his heels, had met.

"John Nevison? Never 'eard of 'im," said one surly matron, slopping a cup of sour beer down in front of Jack and demanding an extortionate penny for it.

"They call him Swift Nick," said Jack.

"They can call him the Devil for all I care," snapped the woman.

Jack Shaftoe had spoken of his former friend as a gentleman, and thus Jack had begun his quest in inns of the better sort. Only gradually, as they wandered northward away from the river -- hadn't Shaftoe said that Nevison came from the north? -- did the three of them cast their net wider: in shabbier hostelries with pounded earth floors; in the ramshackle drinking-shops that backed onto livery stables where ostlers sat and drank themselves oblivious; and, eventually, in a cellar near Bedlam, frequented (Jack was sure) by inmates of that notorious Hospital. In some revolting European perversion of enjoyment, the place was dingy and reeked of inadequate drainage. There was nothing to eat, and the only drink for sale was a clear, vicious, bitter-tasting distillation that even Jack could barely stomach. Poor Will was looking quite green beneath the exotic bronze of his skin, like a church-roof exposed to English rain. And Martingale ... where the hell had Martingale got to?

Jack's temper had not been improved by the fruitlessness of his enquiries: he was quite prepared to give Jamie Martingale a tongue-lashing for wandering off and leaving his Captain alone (save for the company of a queasy, cross-eyed savage) in this den of iniquity. He peered into the gloom of the cellar, hand on the hilt of his knife, trying to make out what the woman by the fireplace was doing: then wishing he hadn't, for it turned his stomach more than the gin had done.

"Captain?"

Jack bestowed a narrow-eyed glare on Jamie Martingale, but that young man's enthusiasm was only lightly dented.

"Captain," he said again, loud enough that a couple of nearby drinkers turned to stare at Jack. "I found a fellow who knows ... knows _Jack's friend_."

"Aye?" said Jack. "Where is he, then?"

"In the Angel, at the end of the road," said Martingale obligingly. He prodded Will, who groaned. "Come on, mate: one more place to visit, and then we'll go back, I promise, an' I'll get you to bed."

"Thank you, Mr Martingale," said Jack, scowling. He did not wish to think of Will being put to bed, not by Jamie Martingale, not by _anyone_ : nor did he especially wish to think of beds at all, not unless they had Jack Shaftoe in them. And Jack Shaftoe was off in Limehouse with his dullard sibling, no doubt having a splendid time catching up on all the family news and gossip, and beaming paternally at those two infernal offshoots of the family tree.

Of course, this errand couldn't be run with Shaftoe around.

Ten minutes later Jack was propping up the bar in the Angel, a prosperous coaching inn with leaded windows and a well-swept floor.

"Swift Nick, they call him," his new friend Richard was saying, apparently mesmerised by Jack Sparrow's exotic brightness as much as by the tumbler-ful of brandy that Jack'd bought him. "For they do say he rode from London to York in a single day!"

"Marvellous," said Jack brightly. He had only the haziest notion of England's geography, except where it intersected with the sea. York was not on the coast: but clearly it was some distance from London Town. "And that's where he lives, is it? York?"

"Oh no!" cried Richard merrily.

"London, then?" said Jack, letting his smile grow slightly sharper.

"No, sir!"

"It's Captain, actually," said Jack. "Captain Jack Sparrow. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

A brief, depressing haze of confusion swept over Richard's round, pocked face: then it cleared, and he said, "Nevison! Aye, he comes to London once in a while: but he does most of his _business_ , if you know what I mean, sir, eh?"

"Yes," said Jack, rolling his eyes. "Does his business where?"

"Newark, sir," said Richard.

"And where might Newark be?" said Jack, suspecting that his smile was a rictus by now.

"Why, sir, 'tis northwards," said Richard. He was still smiling. "Not above two days' ride -- unless you're Swift Nick Nevison of course, ha ha!"

"Ha ha," said Jack: and this time Richard's smile faltered.

 

 

"Look," said Martingale, smiling up at Jack as he approached. "I laid out some of those bills, like you said: but there's someone else givin' them out." He flourished a scrap of printed paper at his captain.

"What's that?" said Jack, and answered his own question by reading aloud. "'A Lady of Quality, newly arriv'd in London after being long enslav'd by Barbary Rovers and sold to the Infidel, and brought to freedom by a Gentleman: she will recount her Adventures and speak most eloquently on the subject, daily at 3 of the clock, at the sign of the Doctor's Head on Coleman Street.' Well, Mr Martingale, would _you_ pay your sixpence to see some wench prattling on about infidels and slavery? Or would you sooner see derring deeds and great adventures, and -- begging your pardon, Will -- painted savages sporting with knives?"

"Savages, Captain," said Jamie, with a lecherous grin. "An' I bet Will's a finer --"

"Aye, very probably," interrupted Jack, before Martingale's expression could channel itself into, doubtless provocative, words. "Well, it seems our _old friend_ ain't about: but I've a direction for him, and I'm assured that a letter, carried by that coach that's making ready outside the door, will be with him in three days at most."

"A letter, Captain?"

"Aye," said Jack. "And you've a fine hand. Here!" He called for ink and paper, and Richard -- well-greased with silver -- sprang to his bidding. In under a minute, Jamie Martingale was perched on the edge of the settle, pen held creditably clerk-like 'tween thumb and forefinger, looking up at Jack impatiently.

"'Dear Sir, I trust this finds you as it leaves me, in good health. (No, Jamie, we're hoping to bring him to us, not send him scarpering.) I write to say -- no, I write _in haste_ to say -- to express my distress -- no, best leave rhyme to those Poets: I write in haste, but wished to tell you of my distress at the brevity of our acquaintance. (I think you'll find it has a 'c' in it, Mr Martingale.) You will recall the occasion of our meeting, a great adventure, and the introduction performed by our mutual ..."

"Captain?"

Jack unclenched his jaw. The mere _thought_ of those years when Jack Shaftoe, instead of roaming free on the Spanish Main, had been trudging 'round Europe in the mud with Swift Nick Nevison! It made Jack want to rage, or hit something, or take hold of Shaftoe and renew _their_ acquaintance.

Perhaps Jack Shaftoe'd be back by the time Jack and his crew (Will more or less asleep now) returned to Fenchurch Street.

"I do beg your pardon, Mr Martingale: just searching for the correct Formula. Continue: 'by our mutual ... friend ... Mr Jack Shaftoe'. Now, on a new line: 'Perhaps you will have heard that we, and all our party, were robbed at that inn' (yes, I _know_ , Mr Martingale: but it's best he thinks we don't suspect him, eh?): 'yet I beg to inform you that our fortunes are greater than ever, due to marvels from the New World. We --'"

"Sir? The coachman's whipping up the horses, sir!"

"'Mr Shaftoe and I,'" dictated Jack rapidly, each word crystal-clear, "'wish you to join us in our good fortune. You may enquire for us at the Ipswich Inn, in Cullum-Street, in the City of London. Yours sincerely, and so on. Give me that!"

There was just time to seal it, and write "J. Nevison, The Talbot Inn, Newark": to drip candle-wax onto the join, and stamp it with his signet-ring: then Richard all but seized it from his hand and leapt through the doorway, waving the letter like a white flag.

"There ain't a man on earth who'll turn away from effortless profit," said Jack Sparrow. "And then, lads," dropping his voice so Richard wouldn't hear, "then we'll have the bastard, eh?"

* * *

With all the grunting and snuffling, howling and yowling, twittering and flitting, the Tower Menagerie bid fair to deafen both men: and that was before they'd come anywhere near the arc of trellis-work that separated Man from Nature.

"Worse than the _Pearl_ when we broke out the rum, crossing the Line," said Burton, directly into Djagdao's ear.

Djagdao did not laugh. He stalked beside Burton, glancing from right to left, meeting and holding the gaze of anyone who stared at him: and many, Burton saw, _did_ stare, turning from the caged beasts to the free man walking at Burton's side.

"Oooh, it's a painted man!" Burton heard one lad cry. Jack Sparrow'd schooled him well, for he'd reached into his pocket for a flyer 'fore thinking of what Djagdao might feel, hearing that.

He gave the Chibcha a questioning look. Djagdao looked back at him unsmilingly, but Burton knew his friend well, now, and could see the infinitesimal crease at the corner of the man's eye, the spark of humour in that fathomless black gaze. "Give him the paper," said Djagdao. "We will profit from his ... curiosity."

"In this country," said Burton, "we've a saying: curiosity killed the cat."

"Aye?" said Djagdao, pausing to stare at a mangy-looking beast curled up in one corner of its foetid enclosure. "And what is this creature?"

"A lion," said Burton, grinning. "Here, puss!" He scooped up a handful of chaff and sand from the path, and flung it at the cage. The lion twitched, and opened one bleary, malevolent eye.

"Not curious," said Djagdao. "And so he is alive."

"You hunt lions, in ... in your land?" said Burton, as much for the benefit of the small boys crowding after them as for any interest of his own. He'd never seen lions in Guyana, nor bears, nor anything much larger than a well-fed rat: but surely, in that great forest, there were wild beasts aplenty?

Djagdao gave him an odd, narrow-eyed glance, and shook his head.

"An' this," said Burton quickly, a hand on the Indian's elbow to guide him, "this is an eagle."

They could plainly see the lice on the great feathers, and the cruel metal cuff that ringed one leg, chaining the bird to its perch. On the dusty ground were the remnants of a fair-sized meal: a lamb, perhaps, or a suckling pig.

"He will not fly again," said Djagdao sombrely. "He will die ... not-free."

A horrid thought assailed John Burton then. "But _you're_ not chained, mate. You're free. You c'n do whatever you want."

Djagdao's smile was surpassing sweet, as though it were he reassuring Burton, and not the other way about. "I know," he said. "My friend: I know."

edited to add Additional Material, because I can refuse beloved co-author nothing.   



	21. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Twenty-One

  


Jack Shaftoe rapped upon his brother’s door with his right hand; his left was jammed firmly in his coat pocket, just as it had been throughout his previous Familial Encounters. Because Bob was very unlikely to let the loss of Body Parts go by without a lot of explanation; and there didn’t seem to be any explanation that didn’t involve Spaniards with Unnatural Urges, whether directed at one another or at Jack himself. A topic which, obviously, shouldn’t be alluded to even in the most oblique manner, not while Bob had Swift Nick Nevison’s disgusting rumours buzzing round in his bonnet.

Clodagh opened the door, and beamed as if quite genuinely delighted to see him. She’d been busy in the kitchen, by the looks of her. Her apron was liberally dusted with flour; she wiped her hands on one of its less powdery corners before putting a palm to his cheek and bouncing up on tiptoe to give him a quick peck on the other.

“Jack! How lovely! But… is that _perfume_ I can smell on you, you wicked thing?”

“Is it? How on earth could that have happened?” said Resolutely Heterosexual Jack Shaftoe, with a rakish grin.

Clodagh might only be a slip of a maid, but she was a Partry alright; she laughed a happy, dirty laugh. Sounded just like Mary Dolores for a moment there. Jack was assailed by a brief, melancholy recollection of the way _she’d_ laugh, at the way they’d tell each other dirty jokes in bed, at the way hers were invariably more filthy. Grand times. Before she fell pregnant, of course, and turned into a harpy.

The house—like its neighbours—was two narrow storeys stacked like blocks one atop the other, each larger than the last, leaning out perilously into the street. Clodagh beckoned Jack inside, into the warm. The boys were playing on the rug in front of the fire; Bob, his stock untied and smoking a pipe as he watched over them from the armchair by the front window, looked every inch the paterfamilias. Jack felt quite nauseated to see it. Whose bloody children were these, eh?

Making his point, Jack gave his brother no more than a nod of greeting, and went straight to the boys, crouching down and patting them on their heads. “Hello, you fine fellows,” he said heartily, trying to mean it, trying not to listen to the ghost of Jack Sparrow’s hysterical laughter that was echoing though his imagination. “I hope you’re well?”

Jimmy looked up from their game; they were playing cards. “Danny’s a bloody cheat,” he said without preamble. His black eye had faded to a dull and dirty green.

“I am fookin’ not! We never said we was playing aces low!”

“Language!” Clodagh snapped. (Jack was very tempted to tell her that it was a battle she’d never win, and so she might as well save her breath.) “An’ don’t start that fight again, or I’ll have them cards off you an’ in the fire, quick as a fox!”

“Oh, don’t do that! He’s too far ahead, I owe him thruppence!” Danny cried, and turned a look of such pleading, innocent, blue-eyed _goodness_ on his aunt that Jack’s heart swelled with undeserved pride. They were definitely his, then.

“I told you not to play for money,” said Bob. He shook his head at Jack. “Gambling, and they’re barely seven, Jack. That’s what happens to fatherless boys.”

Jack shrugged. “They’re bound to gamble when they grow, ain’t they? Might as well get through the learning of it while it’s only thruppence on the table, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s what _we_ said!” cried Jimmy, and all of a sudden Jack found himself bathed in the glorious glow of his sons’ smiling approbation. They weren’t bad-looking children, grinning like that. And Danny’s teeth would grow back, wouldn’t they?

“Didn’t bring Captain Sparrow with you this time, then?” said Bob, who never did react well to being ganged up on.

“No,” said Jack blandly. It was hard, though, to be so dismissive. Just hearing that name on his brother’s tongue made something swirl and fizz in his belly. They’d spent so little time apart, the last few months; it was odd, now, not being with him. And hard, when they’d parted on such awkward terms. They’d said that they were all made up… but it didn’t feel properly sealed, not with just a brief smile and a roadside parting. It felt like unfinished business.

“Who’s Captain Sparrow?” Danny wanted to know.

Jack attempted to explain, without undue reference to piracy, sodomy, improper attachments, and the like. It was a very short explanation.

“He’s a friend of your father’s,” said Bob. “A particularly _good_ friend, apparently.”

Jack glared at him. “I’ll tell you another good friend I caught up with today,” he said. “Flora. Over in Stoney Street.”

“Oh!” said Clodagh, coquettish and blissfully ignorant of Flora’s occupation. “Is that why you’re all perfumed, then, Jack?”

Jack gave her a sunny smile, and then narrowed his eyes meaningfully at Bob. “Yes,” he said. “Flora wears a _lot_ of perfume.” This was an extremely gratifying situation; Bob clearly didn’t know whether it was more important to be appalled by Jack’s fraternisation with a whore, or relieved by his fraternisation with a female.

He hit upon a third option, which was to berate Jack for faithlessness to his fictional sweetheart. Jack snorted and rolled his eyes, though for the sake of his children’s tender sensibilities (damn, he was getting good at this fatherhood lark!) he did not shout _Hello, Bob, she’s a prostitute._

Clodagh was taking off her apron, patting down her skirts and rolling down her sleeves. “Right, then,” she said. “That pie’s for the boys’ tea, an’ help yourself too, of course! I’d best be off, Mary Margaret’ll be wondering where I’ve got to!”

“Oh, you’re not going out, are you?” said Jack, dismayed at the loss of the closest thing he had to an ally.

Bob jumped to his feet. “Aye,” he said with great satisfaction. “We both are. Thought you could do with some time to get to know your boys, eh?”

The blood drained out of Jack’s face, his hands, his feet; Lord knew where it’d gone to, for it hadn’t run off to its usual haunt. “What? You want me to, to, to _babysit?_ ”

“I don’t think it counts as babysitting when you’re the parent,” Bob opined, pulling on his coat. “Bye, lads, be good for your dad.”

“But—I’ve got—but—I don’t—but—when will you be back?” Jack tried to calm down. He had an idea that children were like dogs, and that the mustn’t-show-fear-they-can-smell-it thing applied.

“Couple of hours,” said Bob cheerfully, clapping his hat on his head.

“Don’t worry! They’ll be good, won’t you boys? And I’ll be back before their bedtime,” said Clodagh, smiling widely and clearly overjoyed to be getting a few hours’ parole.

And then they were gone. The door slammed and the house fell horridly, unnaturally silent.

Jack looked down at Jimmy and Danny. Jimmy and Danny looked up at Jack.

“So what’s the maximum bet?” said Jack.

 

 

Despite all the odds in their favour—previous experience, parental guidance, and surely lineage counted for something—Danny and Jimmy Shaftoe turned out to be enormously irritating card players. Hobbled by their age, their attention span was remarkably short, and their ability to deal with any outcome other than a resounding win was very limited. Two hands, two fights and two ear-boxings later, Jack was sixpence richer but decidedly tetchy.

“Hand ‘em over, Jimmy, it’s my deal.” He stretched out his left hand; and that was the moment when Danny and Jimmy noticed his missing finger.

This was far more diverting than losing at cards. The pack was dropped on the rug and Jack’s hand was grabbed by two others, small but disturbingly sticky.

“Shite, will ye look at that?”

“How did it—how did it—how did it come off?”

“Nuncle Bob never told us you only had nine fingers!”

Jack, back in his natural milieu as the centre of attention, suddenly felt much better. “It was chopped off by an _axe_ ,” he said, savouring their horror. “Twice; that is, in two bits, first a little bit and then some more. Which nat’rally hurt twice as much. And Nuncle Bob doesn’t know. So that’s a secret.”

“Who done it?”

“Did you kill him?”

One could not help but note their childishly delightful avoidance of the whole ‘why’ aspect of the scenario, and concentration on the important issues.

“Why yes, I did kill him,” said Jack, as if it were the most natural thing in the world; as if he had not been a man drugged, maddened with pain, haunted by the spectre of a lustful pirate, locked in a cellar, murdering with an axe.

“That’s good then,” said Danny.

“And guess what this is,” said Jack happily, tugging out his bone-ended plait.

After a very satisfying round of yells of disgust and a brief tussle over who got to touch it first, Jimmy demanded to know where the other bit was. “’Cos you said there was two bits, and I-call-dibs-on-the-other-one!”

“You cain’t!” Danny shouted, but was saved the trouble of coming up with any sort of rationale for this claim by Jack’s shaking his head and explaining that the other bit already had an owner.

“Who?”

“My friend Captain Sparrow.” Jack savoured the words on his tongue, and the wicked frisson they brought with them. _My friend Captain Sparrow._ The man who stood before me, bare and beautiful, shivering and gasping as he threaded that bone onto my hair, twitching and thrusting and keening, his yard buried so deep in my throat I could scarce breathe. The man who said that every time I touched this bone I’d ‘member that moment, and p’rhaps that was a spell he placed on me, for it’s truer than true.

“Oh aye. The one Nuncle Bob don’t like,” said Danny matter-of-factly.

“That’s the one,” said Jack through gritted teeth, concentrating on detumescence.

“How’d you meet him then, if he’s so drefful?”

“He’s not dreadful. Nuncle Bob’s just a bit unimaginative. Haven’t you noticed?”

The boys had very wicked laughs, Jack noted. But it was rotten of him to tease Bob in front of them, really. Bob did a lot for ‘em, Jack knew. Time for a change of subject.

“Captain Sparrow rescued me from a tiny island where I’d been marooned.”

“Why was you marooned?”

_Now_ they came out with the ‘why’ question? Jack dealt with this by the time-honoured tactic of the complete non-sequitur. “I attracted the attention of his ship by making fireworks and shooting them up into the Caribbean night. Want to make some now?”

Their faces were a study; a moment’s open-mouthed silence, and then, “Yes! Yes! YES!”

“So, we’ll need that kindling; I’m willing to donate some of my winnings, for copper; and I know where Nuncle Bob keeps his powder. D’you know where he keeps his whiskey?”

“Are we puttin’ whiskey in the fireworks, then?” cried Danny, running to the scullery.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Jack sternly. “ _Powder_ goes in fireworks, and so does kindling, and copper. Whiskey goes in _me_.”

*

Two hours later, there was a lot of whiskey in Jack, and a crowd of onlookers in the street craning up to the rooftops as green explosions burst starrily in the dusk over Limehouse. Danny only had one eyebrow left. Jimmy was going to need new trousers, but had suffered no major damage during the destruction of his current pair. And both boys were reassessing whether or not they had a fookin’ useless da.

“This one, boys, this one’s going to be the big one! Are you ready for it?” Jack could not restrain a caper, albeit a small one given the relatively vertiginous nature of Bob’s roof.

“Aye! Aye! Let’s! It’s my turn to hold it!”

“No it ain’t, it’s mine, it’s—”

“ _Shut up!_ ” roared Jack, extremely loudly and suddenly; it worked. Parenting! Not so bad after all, if you just did it with flair!

“No-one’s holding this one, it’s too big. Now, Danny, if you could bring me the candle; and Jimmy, you bring me the whiskey bottle, will you?”

They disappeared behind him, but instead of their almost instant reappearance, a deadly, heavy silence fell. Jack knew that silence.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, without turning round. “Nuncle Bob’s back.”

“Boys, get inside, this _instant_ ,” said Bob, in a voice that even Jack was tempted to obey. He sighed. Still, this was the last rocket and he’d had no idea what he was going to do with the boys next, so it wasn’t all bad.

“You can hold this one, if you like,” he said cheerfully.

Bob ignored him, and shouted to the Audience in the street, “Go home! He’s finished!”

Another long silence, and then Bob climbed down to sit beside Jack, where he was braced against the guttering. “Christ Almighty, Jack,” he said, and shook his head. “One afternoon. One. And you’ve nearly killed the pair of them. They haven’t eaten a thing, and—Jack, are you _drunk_?”

“Only a little,” said Jack, in his best Jack Sparrow impersonation, but it went unappreciated. Bob gave him a sad, thundery look. “Christ Almighty,” he said again.

“What’s your problem? They’re fine, we had fun. Think of it as making up for lost time.”

“Those boys are bloody lucky you’re never here. You’d kill ‘em. What the hell’s going to become of you? You and your ridiculous, dangerous ideas… not to mention your dodgy money-making schemes and your dodgier friends!”

“Don’t let’s bring my friends into this, Bob,” said Jack, warningly.

“Well, don’t tell me that Sparrow’s any sort of a good influence on you!”

Jack bit his tongue. He stared away, over the rooftops and spires and the smoke spiralling slowly up into the darkening winter sky, across the city to where the half-built dome of the new Cathedral rose up skeletal against the grey horizon; and there, the Monument, where he’d stood only that morning with Jack Sparrow at his side. _A great Phallus_ , Sparrow’d taunted; and that was what Jack felt like, after even a moment’s consideration of what Jack Sparrow’s influence on him might be. He was taken, fierce and quick, with an urge to be at Jack Sparrow’s side again. Right now. To be at his side, pressed close against that lively warmth, wallowing in the anticipation of what the night would bring, making up for all the day’s separation and misunderstandings. Making up for Flora, and Bob, and the cold, and foolish lies and omissions and arguments.

“Say goodbye to the boys for me; they’re not bad little buggers,” said Jack; and he clapped his brother on the shoulder, swung his legs over the eaves, and shimmied down the drainpipe.


	22. European Physick, Chapter Twenty-Two

  
  
The last viridian shades of twilight had faded from that sliver of the western sky visible to Jack Sparrow as he craned out of the garret window. All along Fenchurch Street, the wealthier citizens were hanging lanthorns from their first-floor windows, out of reach of all but the most enterprising poor: the bustling maidservants, porters and errand-boys had been transmuted by dusk into a motley assortment of whores, muggers and pick-pockets: rats scuttled, tails thrashing like whips, from gutter to doorway.

 

 

"No sign of 'im," reported Jamie Martingale, breathlessly, from the doorway. "I went an' asked in the pub, an' all: but nobody's seen Mr Shaftoe since the pair of you left this morning."

 

 

_Damn_ Jack Shaftoe, thought Jack, and would've voiced this sentiment aloud had he not suspected that Martingale would take it as some sign that relations were less than idyllic between his Captain and Jack Shaftoe. A ridiculous notion! Or so Jack Sparrow profoundly hoped.

 

 

Yet this was Shaftoe's home: more, it held the family he'd been so very reluctant to mention. Jack had heard all about Bob (heard, in fact, more than Shaftoe'd actually said aloud) and their meeting had confirmed every morsel of prejudice that he'd harboured. That red-haired bint seemed more of a threat, never mind how cheerfully Shaftoe dismissed her. And those infernal brats!

 

 

Jack ground his teeth. He'd blamed his foul temper on the gin that he'd imbibed in that last dive: but Martingale was fresh-faced and cheerful as a man could rightly be, after a day's adventures in London Town. _He_ did not seem morose.

 

 

"Pray enquire of Mr Burton," said Jack acidly, "whether he feels that the role of Gallant Adventurer is within his reach, as an Actor."

 

 

"But --" began Martingale: Jack quelled him with a glare.

 

 

John Burton was still full of his adventures at the Tower Menagerie -- "And the lions, Captain: mangy old things they were, wi' half their teeth gone, but you wouldn't believe what they did!" -- and it was with some difficulty (and considerable rudeness) that Jack persuaded him to assume the lead role.

 

 

"Can you remember Mr Shaftoe's lines? That little verse that he spoke?" enquired Jack.

 

 

"This ... this rude Indian's rope doth decorate my neck," mumbled Burton, after several prompts from Martingale: then burst out, " _You_ do it, Jamie Martingale, if you're so well-rehearsed!"

 

 

Martingale, nothing loath, was ready to swipe the broad-brimmed hat from Burton's head: but Jack held up a hand.

 

 

"Jamie's far too much the savage," he said silkily, "to play a Christian man. Come now, Mr Martingale: I'm judging solely on my recent observations."

 

 

Martingale, delightfully, blushed, and Burton seized back the hat. Seized it, at least: but it was snatched from his hand before he could don it again.

 

 

"Not late, am I?" said Jack Shaftoe cheerfully.

 

 

"Yes," snapped Jack, suppressing his natural reaction with some difficulty. "Mr Shaftoe, a word in private?"

 

 

Martingale and Burton practically came to blows, shouldering through the narrow doorway of the room: they knew their Captain well enough to recognise that tone of voice. So, clearly, did Jack Shaftoe, who stood his ground and glared so mutinously at Jack that he was glad there were no witnesses to this insubordination.

 

 

"Well, Mr Shaftoe," he said, pitching his voice to minimise the chance of being overheard by the eavesdropper or eavesdroppers whose weight was creaking the boards outside the door, "I won't ask if you spent your afternoon enjoyably, for I b'lieve I detect the odours of gunpowder and strong spirits on you, beside the residue of this morning's activities. But I must say," he went on, stepping closer for the sole purpose of looking up at Shaftoe from under flirtatiously lowered lashes, "I'm most ... disappointed ... in your late return, Jack."

 

 

"Oh?" said Shaftoe, clearly much mollified. "Why's that, then?"

 

 

"Well," murmured Jack, "I was rather hoping we'd have some time."

 

 

"Time?" said Shaftoe, with that slow smile that reliably inflamed every atom of Jack's corpus.

 

 

"Aye," said Jack.

 

 

"Time for what?" said Jack Shaftoe, with a wild wicked gleam in his eye which told Jack that he understood Jack's demeanour most excellently well.

 

 

"Time," said Jack slowly, swaying forward 'til he was pressed against Jack Shaftoe (who must've moved of his own accord, too, for he'd been a step away still) and could feel the thud of his heart, the promising swelling at his groin, the sheer heat of the man through the layers of clothing that separated them. "Time, Jack, to compensate for the omissions of this morning."

 

 

"I've been thinking 'bout that," said Shaftoe, slightly slurred. "All th' way back from bloody Limehouse. Thinking about you, Jack, you looked so --"

 

 

Shaftoe's eyes were drowningly blue, and his hands were splaying over Jack's back and arse, pulling him close; and from the feel of it he'd a substantial welcome in store for Jack. Jack let himself be pulled closer, and tilted his face for Shaftoe's kiss: and then, with a viciously sweet smile, stiffened his resolve (other parts of his anatomy having, as it were, led by example), slid out of Shaftoe's embrace, and said brightly, "Well! Time for the show, Jack!"

 

 

"You -- you --" Shaftoe's blue eyes were impossibly wide with betrayal and hurt.

 

 

"Pirate, love," supplied Jack, his smile sharpening. "Perhaps later, eh?"

 

 

"Oh, later for sure, Jack Sparrow," promised Shaftoe; and he stared at Jack's mouth, and bit at his own lip, in a way that was surely calculated to make Jack fall upon him instantly.

 

 

It would've worked, quite probably, if Burton hadn't chosen that moment to hammer on the door and yell, "Captain, they're getting restless!"

 

 

"Let 'em wait," suggested Shaftoe: so exactly Jack's own thought that he was struck all over again by the sheer perfection of the man.

 

 

But no: it wouldn't do. He shook his head firmly.

 

 

"Later, Mr Shaftoe," he said. "And don't worry about that, that _problem_ of yours," nodding at the crotch of Jack's trousers. "I hear it takes some fellows like that, when they're strangled by the savages."

 

 

* * *

 

 

In his time Jack had been tormented, one way or another, by a veritable army of persecutors: at by his brutish elder brothers when he'd been the baby of the family, prone to rageful fits if teased; by a legion of wayward girls and wanton women, their faces all now a muliebral haze in his mind's eye; by a number of more or less worthy opponents, culminating (or so Jack profoundly hoped) in the late and unlamented Don Alejandro de Braxas, who had separated Jack Shaftoe from two joints of his smallest finger, and so sealed his own death warrant. And of course there was the perpetual needling of the Imp of the Perverse that made its home atop Jack's shoulder, no less a torture for being perceptible (Jack was almost sure) only to himself.

 

 

But all these paled to ghosts and shadows when Jack Sparrow was in the mood to tantalise.

 

 

Between Bob's whisky and Jack Sparrow's caresses, Jack stumbled through the Dramatickal Presentation in a state of acute excitement tempered by an alcoholic haze. 'Twas a wonder he didn't fall off the stage, or throttle himself by tugging harder, or simply in the wrong direction, on Djagdao's garotte. And the thought of what Sparrow'd had to say about _that_ did nothing to aid his composure. Whose idea had it been to include so very many words in this playlet? And why must Jack -- his eye drawn, again and again, to where Sparrow stood in the wings, hidden from the audience as he mouthed lewd suggestions and licked his lips in an unnecessarily and unsubtly suggestive manner -- remain on stage for the duration of the performance? Why, in a minute or less he could achieve some considerable, albeit temporary, measure of satisfaction at the hands ("Mouth! Sparrow-mouth!" shrilled the Imp. "Tonguetonguetongue, JacketyJack!") of Jack Sparrow!

 

 

But that minute was long in coming, and when it finally arrived -- when the two of them were alone together, and the door was closed and barred 'gainst all comers, and Martingale and Burton had been dismissed, with the barest modicum of courtesy, to attend their respective Painted Savages -- it would have been a capital offense to restrict it to a mere sixty seconds. They had all night: and Jack, pulling Sparrow close with just enough force to indicate that this time he'd brook no denial, had every intention of making the most of it.

 

 

"So, Jack," said Sparrow, surfacing from their first long lingering kiss and leaning back in the circle of Jack's arms, looking up at him from beneath those whorish lashes, "did I hear you say, earlier, that you'd been thinking about me?"

 

 

"Ever since I parted from you," confessed Jack, too drunk and too aroused to pretend disinterest. He bit back a poetickal remark about aching more with every inch of distance that divided the two of them: bit back, too, a feeble compliment concerning the power of Jack Sparrow, even in thought, to harden Jack's prick and turn his thoughts to heated lustful phant'sies. If words were failing him, though, there were other forms of expression that he could use: and so he drew Sparrow closer again, revelling in the boneless compliancy with which the pirate melted against him, and expressed his intentions with clarity and precision and sweet, hot honesty.

 

 

"So you want to fuck me, Jack, is that it?" said Sparrow when he was able to speak again, sprawled naked and flushed on their bed.

 

 

"Mmm," said Jack, grinning. He knelt astride Sparrow's thighs, slicking his fingers with aromatic salve, gazing down on Jack Sparrow with a moil of proprietary, passionate, difficult sentiments churning in his head.

 

 

"And what if I want to fuck _you_?" enquired Sparrow, stretching out his arms and writhing slowly and maddeningly 'neath Jack's hands.

 

 

Jack opened his mouth to say "Not tonight, my turn tonight": but Lady Luck, or perhaps the Imp (or, as likely, Jack Sparrow canting his hips t'wards Jack's intromittent finger), hitched his breath and drowned the words unborn. Given this rare opportunity to think before he spoke, Jack found himself questioning his novel urge to be the man doing the fucking. Was it all because of what fucking Nevison'd seen, or was telling the world he'd seen? Or was there something else to it, something to do with fatherhood, some vague nostalgia for his heterosexual days, something (heaven forfend) to do with Public Opinion?

 

 

Fuck it, thought Jack. "Let me have you first," he said, introducing a second quick busy finger. "An' then, Jack, then we'll do turn about and you sh'll have me."

 

 

"Oh," said Sparrow (though the vowel became elastic as Jack, fingers having done their work, braced his hands on Sparrow's thighs and, sudden as fireworks, was _inside_ ). "Oh, you think you've the stamina to outlast me, Mr Shaftoe?"

 

 

"I know it," said Jack, supreme in his confidence of the whiskey's anaesthetic fog and in his much-practiced ability to bring Jack Sparrow, fast and hard and relentless, to the point of no return. "I know it, Jack: an' I've been longing, all day, to have you with me, under me, round me like this, to feel the way you take it, Jack, take it all, to see the way you look at me, love, the way you look when I do _thus_ , and _thus_ ..."

 

 

The sight of Jack Sparrow smiling up at him was in itself almost enough to bring Jack to completion: he groaned aloud as he thrust deep into the marvellous clutching heat of Sparrow's body, and felt the strong muscle there tighten around him, threatening to wring his climax from him before Sparrow reached his own. But Jack could see that gleeful challenge sparking in Sparrow's black exhorting gaze, and he set himself to push Jack Sparrow over the edge. Assailed the pirate, not only with his bone-hard prick, but with his hand all rough and rhythmic on Sparrow's own yard, with his mouth 'gainst Sparrow's mouth and on his salty skin; and with every fibre of his will that wasn't caught up in holding back the flood of his own seed, he urged Sparrow to spend.

 

 

The rush of heat over his hand, in six or seven hot gouts, took Jack by surprise; so intent had he been on providing a Cause that he'd all but forgotten the desired Effect. It was all he could do not to reply to that gasping rush. He squeezed his eyes shut, and thought of Bob, and of the boys, and of that fuckwit Nevison: and found himself left cold and bare, Jack Sparrow wriggling out from beneath him, swiping a hand over his own belly to catch what was left of his seed.

 

 

"Well, Jack," said the pirate, voice impossibly deeper and huskier than usual, and positively resonant with satisfaction, "I trust you won't mind waiting a little while, in order that I might recover myself, as it were, from your endeavours."

 

 

Jack, in truth, was eager to spend: his balls ached, and he was afraid that he'd do himself some irremediable damage by restraining his humours in such a manner. Only the certainty of being mocked for failing to live up to his own bragging restrained him from admitting as much. But Sparrow was rolling him over already, chest against Jack's spine adhesive with sweat: fingers wet with his own warm seed, sliding down the crease of Jack's arse, closer and closer to the place where he most urgently wanted to feel them. And Sparrow's hair was tickling Jack's neck, tangling with his own: and Sparrow's voice was murmuring in his ear, "Well, Jack Shaftoe, I'll do my very best to ensure that this interlude, this quietus, passes as swiftly and entertainingly as any small collection of minutes could be hoped to pass."

 

 

And Jack, submitting more enthusiastically than he'd have thought possible, so soon after the assault of those contrary thoughts, moaned and sighed and grinned and gasped, and bit his lip, and clenched his whole being 'gainst the desire to spend at each separate, yet indivisible, sensation that Jack Sparrow's touch awoke in him.


	23. European Physick, Chapter Twenty-Three

  


A sudden hitching breath that turned into a silent, jaw-distending yawn proved for once and for all that Jack Shaftoe was awake, no matter how much he might pretend otherwise; and Jack suspected that he’d been pretending for at least ten minutes, breathing deliberately slow and deep and not responding at all to Jack’s subtle hints that he was awake and ready to receive his morning due, viz., a certain amount of affection that might well mutate into adoration and thence to all-out worship, culminating in mutual rapture. He rocked slowly against Shaftoe’s long warm back, where faint and faded outlines of wings still shewed, bitter against Jack’s tongue.

“Morning, Jack,” he whispered into the nape of Shaftoe’s neck.

Shaftoe grunted amicably and reached behind himself, sliding his palm down Jack’s thigh and encouraging said limb up and over his own. Jack wound happily about him, his morning enthusiasm nestling closer into the warm valley of Shaftoe’s buttocks. Shaftoe gave a chuff of laughter. “What? You want to play that game _again?_ ”

“Seems a fair enough way to start the day, to me. An’ listen: it’s pissing down out there. Reckon we might as well plan to stay in most of the morning.”

“Huh.” Shaftoe fumbled for Jack’s hand, and brought it round in front of himself, presenting Jack’s palm with his stiffened cock. His voice was equal parts sleepy and smug as he muttered, “Well, I s’pose it’s only sporting of me to give you a chance to prove yourself, after my resounding vict’ry last night.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” said Jack, most indignantly; and as a form of punishment he abandoned the satin skin of Shaftoe’s yard, though he did not deprive himself entirely, turning his attentions instead to the contours of hip, the muscled lines of abdomen, the gentle dip of navel. “What vict’ry’s this? I’m quite certain I don’t recall any notable defeats, last night.”

“Made you spend, din’t I. Whereas I, Jack, maintained _control_ ; until I chose elsewise. Thereby proving my general superiority in matters carnal.” Jack did not need to see Shaftoe’s handsome face to know that the right hand corner of his mouth was lifted in a happy smirk.

Despite such outrageous provocation, Jack was secure enough in his own talents where matters carnal were concerned to ignore the insult and chose another path for argument. Any argument would do; arguing with Jack Shaftoe was possibly Jack’s second favourite pastime in the entire world, and almost invariably led to his first. “’Chose elsewise’?” he mused. “Or was it more a case of being driven mercilessly and inexorably over the edge by a fellow who knew exactly what he was doing to your glorious corpus? Do think before you answer, Jack; ‘specially if you have any desire to be treated similarly in the near future.”

Shaftoe sucked in a deep, joyful sigh and rocked his hips back against Jack. “Ohhhh… I suppose you may have been involved, at least tangentially,” he conceded patronisingly.

“Why, thank you for such a wonderful testimonial, darlin’.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, let me get this right…” Jack murmured, smiling against Shaftoe’s neck and rolling the pad of his thumb over Shaftoe’s cockhead. “You held back, and I could not; spent all over your hand, in fact.”

“Mmmm.” Shaftoe shivered in happy recall. “That sounds about right.”

“But then I, by dint of, ooh I don’t know, fierce use of imagination or something, managed to conjure up another cockstand out of nowhere, and roger you into oblivion—oh, sorry, I mean until you _chose_ to abdicate control—whereupon I, poor incompetent that I am, lost it all over again.”

“A fair summary,” sighed Shaftoe, tilting his head to allow Jack access to his neck, and reaching back to stroke Jack’s flanks.

“So you only _lost control_ once. And I _lost control_ twice.”

“Mmmm.”

“Mr Shaftoe, if that’s your definition of vict’ry, I confess I’m the happiest loser that ever walked the face of the earth,” Jack cried.

Shaftoe’s ribs convulsed with silent laughter. “You’ve a point. In fact… you could say you owe me one, Jack. And… mmm, Jack, I don’t half fancy your mouth on me, should you be so inclined.” Shaftoe squirmed in of Jack’s ivy-like embrace, twisting round to face him, smiling and heavy-eyed with sleep, so breathtakingly handsome that Jack could not hold back a delighted grin. Chests, bellies, cocks met; and Jack was all prepared to add lips to that litany, when he heard a knock on the door down the stairs.

“Oh, bugger.”

“Ignore it,” said Shaftoe, pulling Jack closer and biting at his neck. “Come on, you’ve got me all enthused now.”

“Business before pleasure, mate, it’s an important rule, though I confess it’s a particularly annoying one at times; that might be Mother Williams’ boy, might it not?”

“He’ll come back later, then.” Shaftoe was nothing if not persistent. He delayed Jack for so long, in fact, that the repeated (and increasingly desperate) pounding on the door finally resulted in a bellowed, “I’m coming, curse you!” from the hallway, and the heavy tread of John Burton on the stairs, accompanied by several loud sneezes and a coughing fit.

“There!” cried Shaftoe triumphantly. “All in hand, Jack; which is more than I can say for my poor self.” He was wriggling most enticingly, pulling Jack over on top of himself; Jack, laughing, fought free and surprised them both by accidentally falling out of the bed and onto the floor, taking most of the bedcovers with him.

“Oi! It’s cold!” Shaftoe made a grab, and Jack scrambled out of his reach. Oh Jack Shaftoe, bare and sprawled on that crumpled sheet! It was no incentive to return the blankets, none at all.

In the hallway, two sets of footsteps could be heard, and Burton was talking, low and indecipherable. “Come on, give me the covers!” Shaftoe demanded, glancing at the door.

“But if I gave you the covers,” Jack taunted, “why, mate, I’d be all exposed to our visitor’s prying eyes!”

“Exposed? An’ what am I?” Shaftoe knelt up on the bed, arms spread wide, glaring down at Jack and shivering; all blousy-headed and pink-cheeked, nipples small and hard with cold, his yard jutting fractiously. Jack found himself actually salivating.

“What are you? You,” he said, after a moment’s swallowing and gawping, “are fucking _gorgeous_ , that’s what you are.”

A knock on the door, and Jack—after a long pause in which he was too occupied with staring at Shaftoe, and being stared back at, to think or speak—finally managed to squeeze out a “Just a moment!” He threw the bedclothes to Shaftoe and scrambled into his breeches and coat.

“Come!”

Burton, red-nosed and sniffing but bare-chested despite the frigid temperature—no wonder the great geck was coming down with an ague—ushered a gangly ginger-headed lad into the room. “Captain, this here boy’s come from Mother Williams, he says.”

“Oh excellent!” said Jack, fastening his breeches with one hand and waving the distinctly nervous-looking lad forward with the other. “Come on then—what’s your name?—come on then, Ned, what’ve you got for us?”

“This,” said Ned, with an uneasy glance in the direction of Jack Shaftoe, and then back at Jack himself. (Jack could almost feel Shaftoe bristling under the boy’s inspection, damn it all.) He produced a fat purse, and a piece of paper covered in inky fingerprints and a badly applied wax seal. “For the Cure, sir.”

Jack took the purse and tossed it to Burton. “Count that, will you, John?” He broke the seal and read aloud, though rather slowly, since the madam’s penmanship left a great deal to be desired, not to mention her astonishingly idiosyncratic spelling and general contempt for grammar, punctuation, and indeed vowels.

“ _Here are five_ , at least I think it’s a five, _doses at nine_ —I presume she means pounds?—alright, five doses at nine pounds… _and two at seven_. Seven, you dreadful old thief?” He glared at Ned, as proxy.

Ned stood his ground rather admirably. “Those are for the girls. Mistress says you wouldn’t want good girls like that to pay full whack, not when you’re makin’ so much off the gentry.”

Jack considered arguing, but really, this was a _lot_ of money. So fuck it. He contented himself with saying a few astonishingly rude things about this line of reasoning and then returned to the letter.

“ _And one at six_. One at _six_ , Ned? What, may I ask, the fuck?”

“That’s for Miss Flora. It’s seven, less her fee for services rendered, yesterday.”

Oh, that really was too much. “Miss bloody Flora,” Jack began, with a vicious edge to his voice that made Ned take a step backwards, “can fucking well—”

But Shaftoe rode over the top of him. “That’s fine, Ned,” he said, loud and firm. “An’ tell Miss Flora that her services were very enjoyable an’ greatly ‘ppreciated.”

“Thank you, sir, I shall. An’ there’ll be more tomorrow,” Ned said quickly. “Mistress said to tell you.”

“It’s all here,” said Burton. “Sixty-five pound, Jack.” Jack could hear the awe in his voice. It was, indeed, a hell of a lot of money. And more to come! He supposed he could ignore the Flora issue, just this once. Though Shaftoe’s insistence on flaunting his Female Conquests was really becoming very tiresome.

To pay him back for being such an ass Jack turned to him and said sweetly, “’Course, yes, services, appreciated. Absolutely. Lovely girl. Quality quim, eh, Jack? Now, would you do me a service, too, and nip next door an’ get those Instructions from Jamie? He swore he’d get ‘em done, last night.”

He said this mostly so that Shaftoe would have to request his breeches, which were dangling elegantly from the mantelpiece, and thereby prove unequivocally that he was, in fact, naked in Jack’s bed. But Shaftoe just gave him a narrow-eyed look, bundled himself up in the largest and least moth-eaten blanket, and stomped barefoot out of the room.

*

Jack felt trapped between two equal and opposing evils, and it made him crochety. On the one hand, there was the untenable risk of Swift Nick’s vile rumour-mongering being bolstered by a confirmational story via young Ned, unreliable Flora, and frankly evil-intentioned Mother Williams, leading to a permanent slur on his proclivities which would—he was depressingly sure—effectively eclipse all his previous entertaining exploits as the main feature of any memorial legacy that Jack Shaftoe might leave behind him.

On the other hand lay the even _more_ untenable option of doing as Society, Church and Law required him to do, and immediately cease and desist from all fornication with Jack Sparrow. Which, obviously, was not an option at all; because Jack Sparrow was the most glorious drug that Jack had ever encountered, and he could no more give it up willingly than cease to breathe.

Jack grumbled under his breath as he knocked peremptorily upon Martingale’s door, and shouldered his way in without waiting for a reply. The pair of them were burrowed deep under the blankets; and although Martingale was not dressed when he emerged, thankfully nor was he panting, sweaty, or covered in any substances which might indicate that they were doing anything apart from sleeping under there.

“Jack? What can I do for you?” Martingale said, with a sunny smile.

Such an agreeable boy. “Captain Sparrow wants those Instructions,” Jack said, and then he added inventively (inspired, no doubt, by the toothsome smells rising from below), “and then he wants you an’ Will to go out and get us all some breakfast. Pasties, I think he said he wanted.”

“Oh. Um.” Martingale reached over for his coat, and pulled it on before clambering out of the nest of blankets. He was barelegged, and Jack tried very hard not to stare. ‘Twas one thing to have an unhealthy regard for Jack Sparrow, and quite another to go thinking that any _other_ fellow’s legs were surprisingly nicely muscled.

Jamie took a pile of papers off the windowsill and handed them to Jack. “I’ve done a dozen, will that be ‘nough?”

“Aye, but we’ll need more tomorrow, I think.”

“I’ll do them. And I’ll go for breakfast, but Will should stay here; he ain’t well.”

“I am fine. I am not sick,” came a grumpy mumble from the bed.

“Yes you are,” said Martingale. “You’re all hot, an’ you couldn’t get comfortable last night; don’t tell me lies.”

“Of course he’s fucking hot,” Jack said dismissively. “He’s buried under about two feet of wool.”

“I’m cold,” Will insisted indistinctly, and Jamie frowned. “See?” he muttered to Jack. “He ain’t well.”

“Burton’s sneezing like a pepper-merchant, too. Just… oh, rest up, Will, you don’t need to do aught before the show this evening.”

“Right,” said Jamie. “Will, have you seen my breeches? I’ll go an’ get breakfast.”

Jack sighed. Really, a conscience was a dreadful bore. “You stay here an’ look after our painted savage,” he said kindly. “I’ll get food.”

“Would you do that, Jack? Oh, you’re a gent!” Jamie grinned his thanks, and clapped Jack on the shoulder in appreciation; which action had the unfortunate side effect of letting his unbuttoned coat fall open wide.

Pale skin, smooth and unmarked save some indistinct smears of paint; a fine trail of dark hair leading down a flat abdomen, to—

Jack, eyes averted but flushing despite himself, gathered his blanket tight and fled.


	24. European Physick, Chapter Twenty-Four

  
  
It'd rained all day, and -- aside from Jack Shaftoe's hasty dash to the inn 'round the corner for a couple of jugs of hot rum-punch, an errand from which he'd returned drenched and shivering and most appreciative of Jack's efforts to warm him -- none of their party had ventured further than the cosy common-room of the cookshop downstairs.

Jack Sparrow had no complaints. True, their room was small, and the fire spewed out stenchful smoke: but he'd lain abed almost all day, with Jack Shaftoe to bring him food and drink and minister to his well-being. And Shaftoe'd shown no desire to wander off, like the Vagabond he'd been, and consort with prostitutes, criminals or members of the sprawling Shaftoe-Partry clan: instead, he'd been gratifyingly keen to strip off his sopping clothes and join Jack under the blankets, pressing up against him, fond and fierce and playful by turns, visiting exquisite delights 'pon Jack's person and, between times, entertaining him in less carnal ways.

"So the lawyer, he takes off his wig and his coat, and his breeches, and his shirt, until he's naked as the day he was born, and he climbs into bed, 'ooh, let me at her!', with the strumpet: but it ain't no bed, see, but a coffin, and the wench is nothing but a broomstick and a few dirty rags: and they clap on the lid and nail it down," Shaftoe's hand tapping out the rhythm on Jack's ribs, "and tip 'im in the empty grave, and that's the end of him!"

Jack cackled, and took another swig of rum before he passed the cup to Shaftoe. "I must confess," he murmured, "I don't b'lieve I've ever had a bedmate quite as ... versatile ... as yourself, Jack."

"Is that right?" said Shaftoe, smirking.

"Not that I believe nine-tenths of the lies you come out with, of course," said Jack.

"Lies!" cried Shaftoe, swatting at him. "Those are honest accounts of London life, an' I'd like to see you prove otherwise! And what of the other tenth, eh?"

"I'll be sure to tell you," said Jack, "just as soon as I've worked out which tenth it is that's truth."

"What? What's a little elaboration, a little embroidery, 'tween friends?" said Shaftoe. "And anyway," he added, rolling over and propping himself up on his elbow, looking down at Jack, "it ain't my Narrative Arts that you were after, when you wickedly seduced me to your bed."

"Oh, I don't know," said Jack slowly, staring at Shaftoe -- at his bare, flushed, stubble-burnt skin, the sly gleam of his smile, the devil-blue spark in his eye, not to mention those glories still concealed by the dirty sheet -- and wondering at the luck that'd brought this utterly perfect specimen to his arms. "'Twas _something_ you did with your mouth, or so I seem to recall. Now, what could it've been?" And he bit his lower lip thoughtfully, frowning, for the sole purpose of inciting some Prompt.

A Prompt presented itself, though not in quite the manner that Jack had anticipated. There was a knock on the door, and Martingale called out, "It's gone six, Captain, Mr Shaftoe: an' there's a fine old crowd downstairs, spite of the rain!"

Jack threw an arm over his face, sighing loudly: reached out for Shaftoe, and found that gentleman already sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Told you so," said Jack Shaftoe. "Never mind the wind and the rain, your Londoner's gagging for a decent show of an evening, an' if there's hot pies and ale, why, all the better!" He grabbed his breeches from the stool in front of the fireplace and pulled them on, grimacing at the touch of the damp cloth. "Well, Captain Sparrow: are you going to lie abed all evening too? Sh'll we charge 'em tuppence to come and view the Dread Pirate in his Lair?"

Jack growled, and reached for those garments that'd ended up nearest to the bed. "You're distracting me," he complained, "standing around half-naked like ... yes," as Shaftoe stretched, muscles popping, and stuck his tongue out at Jack, "like some lewd Satyr on a plinth. Why don't you go downstairs and make sure that Mr Burton has matters in hand?"

"Sneezing and splutterin' over everyone, no doubt," said Shaftoe unkindly, lacing his shirt: but he tipped the last of the punch into the cup and took it with him, unsipped, when he sauntered out.

Left briefly alone, Jack wondered at how quiet and chilly the room seemed without Jack Shaftoe to fill and warm it. He scrambled into the remainder of his clothes, set his hat on his head -- Shaftoe's was still hanging from the nail on the back of the door -- and wished, briefly and bootlessly, for a mirror. Though Shaftoe's last warm look had been mirror enough, really. Jack was confident of his finery.

Going downstairs, he collided with Shaftoe hurrying up to retrieve his hat. He seized it from Jack's hand, jammed it on his head, and leant close as if to bestow a kiss. Jack closed his eyes.

"There's some fine lady down there," murmured Shaftoe.

Jack blinked, and wrinkled his nose, as though quelling an incipient sneeze. "There is?" he said, trying not to sound disappointed.

"Aye," said Shaftoe. "Right at the back, against the far wall, with a hulking brute of a manservant at her side to keep the rakes at bay."

"Shame," said Jack reflexively. "Is she pretty, then?"

"Christ alone knows," said Shaftoe. "All rigged up in veils and what-not."

"That's what this show needs," said Jack. "A touch of quality. The patronage of the nobility."

"Hah!" said Shaftoe, turning on the narrow stair to follow him down. (Jack put a sway into his steps.) "Our _other_ endeavour's more to their taste, Jack: all those fine and fancy lords, putting it about all over Europe? Riddled with Pox, I tell you. 'Tis a wonder the country's not gone to the dogs, with all of 'em mad from it."

Jack scarcely heard this last: down at the foot of the stairs, in the scant backstage area, the racket from the audience was deafening. He peered out from behind the curtain, but could see nothing of the lady -- common strumpet, more like -- who'd caught Jack Shaftoe's eye. Probably fifty, toothless, bald and ugly as sin, he reassured himself.

Here came John Burton, red-faced and rheumy: "Fifty of 'em," he croaked, handing the purse to Jack. And here was Jamie Martingale, looking anxious. "Will's sick!"

"He can't be," snapped Jack. "He's due on stage."

"Aye, but --"

"But me no buts, Mr Martingale," said Jack. "Come, now: the sooner begun, the sooner it's done, eh?"

"That weren't what you were saying earlier," murmured Shaftoe in Jack's ear, apparently for the sole purpose of discombobulating him.

Jack gave Shaftoe a Look (though could not resist the temptation to follow it with a Feel) and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen!" he said. "Are we ready?"

And the show began.

* * *

The problem with these damned lights, from Jack Shaftoe's point of view, was that they prevented him from making out the faces of those dear deluded souls who'd paid good money to see him play the Adventurer. Why, Flora could be out there! Or (less cheering a thought, this) Clodagh, maybe with the boys (who surely thought their da was quite the thing now, even though he'd decided that the better part of valour was absence for a day or two, 'til Bob got over the Fireworks). Or one of those faces might belong to that yellow-gutted weasel Nevison, who Jack'd like to put a couple of points to. Or ...

Jack tilted his head to the side, easing the pressure of Djagdao's garotte. From this angle he could see the edge of the stage -- no inflammatory gestures from Sparrow tonight: doubtless he'd been exhausted by Jack's own, earlier, Inflamations -- and witness the silent approach of Savage Number Two. Jesus and Mary, Martingale hadn't been making it up: Will, lurching from the wings, looked ghastly, and not in a wholesome crowd-pleasing Noble Savage sort of way neither. Beneath the smooth copper of his skin lurked a bilious, jaundiced taint, and he swayed as he brought the blowpipe to his lips. Jack was glad the dart wasn't real: gladder, on reflection, that it wouldn't be _him_ standing there against the wall while Will chucked knives at him.

"God's Wounds!" he cried (omitting the retching choke that signified the garotte's stricture: he'd a sore throat himself today, no doubt from breathing Burton's stale air). "This noose quite strangleth me! And is this now --"

"Hold!" cried a woman's voice from somewhere beyond the lights.

"Pray have patience, Mistress," said Jack sweetly, pitching his voice to carry. "I'm not dead yet: you may have my corpus after."

This brought, as he'd intended, a ripple of laughter from the audience: but the wench had a strident voice, and was not afraid to use it.

"You should be ashamed, sir!" she cried.

"What's that? Ashamed?" said Jack, cupping an ear in conscious imitation of Don Fucking Esteban. "Ashamed of what?"

The audience had fallen silent now, save for a rumble of curiosity. Jack caught scraps of speculation: "... left her pregnant ..." and "... returned to London ..." and surely, surely, his own name? For an instant he was suddenly, pricklingly sure that this was some foul ruse of Nevison's, or of Dame Rumour's: that this mysterious interloper had come to denounce him for foul and unnatural crimes, here before a paying audience. The rope seemed to tighten about his neck, and he tugged at it: but Djagdao hadn't the wit to let go, and the rough hemp bit into his skin.

"Ashamed, sir, to enslave these poor men, as human as you or I, in such cruel bondage!" The woman was pushing her way forward now: Jack could see the indistinct blur of her veiled face, confirming his guess that his plum-voiced accuser was the well-dressed lady at the back of the crowd.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Bondage?" he said. "Permit me to draw to your attention, mistress, the _rope_ in this little tableau, which is, as you'll be able to see once you've manhandled a few more members of the audience out of your path, around _my_ neck, and not that of either of my exotic friends here. And furthermore, I feel I should bring to your attention that these _friends_ of mine are here by their own choice, and for their own benefit: ain't that so, Djagdao?" he added, craning round.

Djagdao looked at him, unsmiling and flat-eyed. "No understand," he said.

"'Tis clear," cried the shrew, "that these poor benighted souls are caught in durance vile, oppressed -- no, sir, I will not 'stow it'!"

Jack was on the verge of doing a little oppression of his own, despite having recognised the Impish spark of humour in Djagdao's glittery black gaze: but just then Jack Sparrow, resplendent in silks and bullion, swaggered past him, holding out a hand in a gesture at once courtly and kind.

"Pray come forward, my lady," he said, with a little bow, "and explain to these fine folk your questions, your concerns -- nay, your very compassionate and sentimental fears -- and we'll endeavour to set your mind at rest."

"How can I rest?" cried the lady. (Jack, who knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, kept quiet: he was certain that she'd not take kindly to the suggestion that she take her restlessness elsewhere.) "How can I rest, when here before me are good men enslaved by rude pirates?"

"Pirates?" said Jack Sparrow, shading his eyes against the glare of the footlights and peering around. "How utterly frightful! But where?"

"I myself," said the woman, hoisting her skirts up -- Jack glimpsed a shapely calf, and a fine leather boot -- to step over the lanthorns, "spent many fearful, trembling years enslaved in Barbary by the corsairs there. Why, 'twas only by the bravery and fortitude of an Englishman that I saw my native land again."

Good diction, Jack'd give her that, and she knew how to captivate a crowd: the audience ( _their_ audience, damn it!) was almost silent, and even the men and women who'd been shoved aside in the woman's relentless plunge stagewards were pressing forward, eager to hear her words.

"Barbary?" murmured Sparrow, swaying close to Jack. "Ain't that where your mate Nevison --"

"He's _not_ my _fucking_ mate," muttered Jack fiercely: too fiercely for discretion, perhaps, for now the woman -- her head scarce as high as his shoulder, and the rest of her slight enough that he could knock her down one-handed, an astonishingly tempting notion -- had turned to face the two of them across the breadth of the stage. Jack admired her innate grasp of the theatrickal arts.

"What manner of men are you, then, if not pirates?" she enquired.

"Captain Jack Sparrow of the _Black Pearl_ , my lady, very much at your service," said Sparrow, sidestepping the question with such sparkling insincerity that Jack wanted to cheer. "And now I fear you have the advantage of me: may I enquire the name and nature of this bright and radiant new jewel upon the English stage?"

The woman raised her right hand and swept back her heavy veils dramatickally, glaring at the two of them. Blue-eyed she was, and pretty enough, if you liked that sort of thing: small, neat features, and a mouth that no doubt could smile sweetly. At the moment, though, she looked furious enough to slap somebody, and Jack profoundly hoped it wouldn't be him. He took a precautionary step back.

"My name is Eliza," announced their nemesis in ringing tones, "and I am no common Actress, but a tireless Crusader against the abomination that is slavery!"

"Tire _some_ , more like," said Jack, very quietly: but nobody was listening to him any more.


	25. European Physick, Chapter Twenty-Five

  


Jack Sparrow twisted up a grin out of somewhere. Anywhere. Because this bothersome chit was not getting the better of _him_ : accosting him on his own stage, no less! The cheek of it!

The little creature’s face was fierce as could be, so very fierce that he’d laugh at her, if he wasn’t already a little frightened by her. She was clearly a) fearless, b) reasonably clever, and worst of all, c) quite utterly fanatical. There was no telling what that sort might be capable of. Placation was definitely the order of the day, and Jack definitely had to be the one to do it; Shaftoe, glaring at him from over the top of this Eliza’s head, looked as if he’d sooner remove her by force, and while that might be a tempting (and rather endearing) proposition in the immediate term, it was likely to lead to more trouble than it was worth.

“I am in absolute agreement with you, madam!” he cried. “Slavery is an abomination indeed: why, I’ve seen more than my fair share of it, in the dreadful markets of the New World. In fact, I should be delighted to contribute to your, what was it, your _Crusade_. Here: take this, I beg of you!” And he pulled his purse, fat with the night’s takings, from beneath his coat: pressed it into her tiny gloved hand.

If Jack Shaftoe’s eyes had been armed, Jack would’ve been a dead man. But Eliza reacted just as expected: “I have no need of your filthy, tainted coin, sir!” she said sharply, and just as sharply pulled her hand from his. Jack let the purse drop, as if she’d knocked it aside; let coins roll and run across the stage.

There was a murmur from the crowd. That was _their_ filthy tainted coin. Eliza, Jack suspected with satisfaction, was now running on borrowed time.

Sure enough, no sooner had she declared, “I come, instead, to free these poor wretches from your clutches!” than a voice from the crowd shouted, “Free ‘em after we’ve seen the show then, you silly bint!” and was widely applauded. Jack held out his hands and raised his eyebrows as if to ask, _What can I do, madam? The mobb demands it!_

“This wicked play shall continue over my dead body!” cried Eliza with the greatest passion. Behind her, Jack Shaftoe held up the garrotte, with a _Shall I? What say you?_ expression on his face. The audience bellowed with laughter, and Jack, delighted yet again by Shaftoe’s sunny wickedness, could not but join them.

Eliza turned in the direction of his gaze, and frowned mightily. She strode over to Will and grabbed him by his arm. Will stumbled as she pulled him to the front of the stage; he looked ashen, and miserable as sin. Feeble bloody man. Surely he could pull himself together for a few more minutes?

“Look at this man,” Eliza demanded of the audience. She shook Will slightly, and he swayed and staggered like a newborn colt. “Is this poor creature fit to be standing here, the object of your curiosity, made to perform like some dancing bear?”

“D’you see a chain about him, madam? D’you see us prod him?” snapped Shaftoe, and Jack gave him a warning look.

“He is no animal, but a man,” said Eliza coldly, “And therefore subject to more insidious, less visible, but no less cruel forms of control. I doubt not that you have devised methodologies to keep him subjugated to your will. This vile exploitation must be stopped _immediately!_ ”

Jack, picturing Jamie Martingale’s Subjugation Methodologies, had to fight very hard against an unhelpful snort. But really, she had a point: the Indian looked sick as a parrot.

“As you wish, madam,” he said, silkily regretful. Turning to the crowd, he announced, “This entertainment is now at an end, I fear, ladies and gentlemen. Good night, and thank you for your patronage.”

“What the fuck?” shouted a red-faced fellow in the front row, and someone else chimed in with, “Gi’s our money back, you bloody charlatan!”

“Who are you calling a charlatan?” said Jack Shaftoe loudly, scowling and clenching his fists (a sight which did something funny to Jack’s innards). “Captain Sparrow ain’t the one who demands an end to this, mate. You want to look to the lady, you do.”

“Now, now, Jack, let’s not—” Jack began, but the lady in question had risen instantly to the challenge, or rather bent to it, scooping handfuls of pennies back into Jack’s purse and then tossing it to her enormous manservant. “I pray you, ladies and gentlemen, claim your funds from my man on your way out!” she cried. “And remember: slavery is a sin, and the wages of sin have been illustrated clearly this evening!”

Jack was still staring rather disconsolately after his takings, and Shaftoe was spluttering in violent indignation, when the woman pulled out a small purse of her own, and extracted a handful of gold coins. “There,” she said, “that should cover it”: and pressed the monies not into Jack’s hand (outstretched), but Will’s (unproffered).

The mobb, grumbling and yet entirely keen to take advantage of the Fanatic’s gesture, dissipated rapidly. Jamie Martingale twisted his way through the crowd from his position at the door and up to Will’s side, putting a coat about his mate’s shoulders. He frowned up at Will, and got a wan smile in return; set his jaw, and turned his ire on Jack.

“I told you before, Captain, he ain’t well! He shouldn’t’ve gone on!”

Jack could’ve kicked him. Eliza, apparently too much the lady to revel vocally in her obvious triumph, contented herself with a shake of the head and further pursing of her lips. And then further again, as Martingale’s arms wound about Will’s waist, as they swayed together, two bodies fitting as sweet and familiar as three-month newlyweds.

Her mouth’d disappear entirely if she didn’t watch it.

“Nor’s Mr Burton a well man, an’ he’s soldiering on,” said Jack, as John sneezed mightily. He said this only in pre-emptive self-defence, and was most annoyed to have to do so; for it was clear enough to him that the poor Warao was far more incapacitated than he’d realised.

“Get him to bed, eh?” he said, more kindly. He found himself glancing expectantly at Jack Shaftoe, waiting for the bawdy tease that was sure to follow such an opening; but Shaftoe, close-lipped, was staring at the back of Eliza’s head. Oh, that was right: no jokes of _that_ sort, in publick. Jack heaved a sigh.

“I should like,” Eliza said imperiously, “to inspect the accommodations that you are providing these men.”

“Should you?” said Jack with a raised eyebrow. “Unfortunately, I believe the phrase ‘none of your damn’d business’ applies here.”

“I shall _make_ it my business, sir!” (Lord, had she just stamped her foot at him?) “And if you’ll not give me your co-operation in the matter, then I shall make it the business of Mr Moggs, over there. Who can be both persuasive and insistent, I think you’ll find.”

Oooh, bad move. In two strides Jack Shaftoe was in front of her, fists on hips, smiling a viciously toothy smile which Jack knew to bode no good. He loomed over the little thing, their fierce blue scowls locking and sparking. Low and quick, Shaftoe said, “D’you truly imagine, missy, that five pirates—aye, _pirates_ , you heard aright—I say five, since Will here’s clearly not up to much—are afeard of your brute? Let the bastard do his fucking worst!”

Jack intervened. It was hard, because, obviously, it would be so much more fun to let Shaftoe and Burton and Djagdao loose on the fellow. But still. Not sporting. “Haha! Pirates! You’ve a fine sense of humour, Jack,” he said, putting a hand to Shaftoe’s shoulder and gentling him away from the woman. “But you’ve been too long a-sea, I fear: you really must watch your language ‘round ladies. Pardon my friend’s French, madam.”

“I think you’ll find I speak fucking French rather well,” said Eliza coolly, not taking her pale gaze off Shaftoe.

“Well. So you do. Anyway, despite Jack’s aversion to coercion—which I confess I share—I see no harm in letting you observe that these men are well-housed, and unrestrained. And then your worries will evaporate and you’ll be able to…” With difficulty, he swallowed the phrase _fuck off_. “… to return home with complete peace of mind. Please: follow me!”

*

Christ alone knew what Sparrow was thinking. Leading this woman upstairs, behind Martingale and Will, clamped together like two halves of a cockle shell; leading them to a tiny room, with its one grimy mattress, and doubtless a fuggy reek of men and sweat and sex. It seemed singularly unlikely to put her mind at rest.

“Being sailors—we’ve but lately crossed the wide Atlantic, ma’am—we’re used to cramped conditions,” Sparrow was saying. “Positively luxurious, these accommodations, by our standards, eh lads?”

“Very roomy,” Jack agreed loudly. “Only having to share with one other: why, we’re used to sleeping row upon row, dozens of us all in together!”

“Here,” said Sparrow, throwing open the door to their room, “Is the Captain’s chamber.”

“Do the, er, Indians sleep here?” said Eliza, peering through the doorway.

“No; I merely show you this modest room to prove how very _egalitarian_ we are.”

This was clearly a word that she approved of. Sparrow squeezed through the crowd on the landing, and opened the door to Martingale and Will’s closet. It was pitch black; he held up a lanthorn, illuminating the dreadful mess of blankets and pillows, scarves and coats and clothes and parcel string.

Jack really could not imagine that this bit was going to go so well. But: “This,” said Sparrow cheerfully, “is the unfortunate state in which Mr Martingale and Mr Burton choose to reside.”

“But I—” said Burton, and then, when everyone looked at him—Eliza curiously, Sparrow with his eyes about to pop out of his head—finished, shamefacedly, “I didn’t get a chance to tidy up, ma’am.”

“Sorry,” added Martingale. “We din’t know we’d be having _visitors_.”

“I think you’ll find…” murmured Sparrow blandly, as he ‘scused himself past Eliza and Jack and Djagdao to the third door, “… that our New World friends have far more civilised rooms.”

Burton and Djagdao’s room, illuminated by lanthornlight, was indeed more civilised. It had a bed, for starters, and that bed was made, tight and flat; clothes were folded neatly in the corner of the room. Eliza lifted her skirts and stepped inside, inspecting it thoroughly. Jack shot a grateful glance down the stairwell to Burton, who grinned up at him.

“And why should I believe,” said the astonishingly annoying and yet undeniably perspicacious Eliza, “that _this_ room, and not that… that… that horrid garderobe, is where the Indians live?”

Sparrow gave her the most wondrously confused look of innocence; but then Djagdao shouldered forward into the room, and pointing to the jars lined on the windowsill he said, “Here: these are our paints. Our brushes. There is where I stand, by the window, when my Warao friend paints his gods upon me.” He moved close to Eliza, running his fingertips over the paintings on his skin. “See?”

Eliza’s tongue darted out, wetting her lips. She seemed faintly startled, and Jack reflected that she hadn’t heard either of ‘em speak; hadn’t actually addressed any question to ‘em, for that matter.

“I see,” she said with a quick smile, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly. “They are most handsome paintings. But you need not stay with these men, you know. You are a free man!”

Djagdao stared at her.

“You are not a slave!” she cried fiercely. “These men have no power over you! If you choose to leave them, I can help you. I have patronage. I can help you return to your own lands; or, if you wish, you can live here in London, as an independent man!”

Djagdao, as if he suddenly realised what the little creature was on about, started to frown. “You wish to take me from my friends?” he demanded.

“Not at all, sir: I wish you to exercise your human right of independent choice!”

“The point you seem to be missing,” Jack Sparrow said, with a roll of his eyes, “is that he has already made an independent choice to be here with us, an’ so has Will made an independent choice, and none of us is stopping either of ‘em from making as many independent bloody choices as they want. Savvy?”

“And I suppose they independently chose to be exhibited like animals?”

Will laughed, then, from his slumped position against the door frame. “No,” he said. “Not like animals. Like mermaids. This was my thought. My plan. We are mermaids!”

(There, thought Jack with great satisfaction, though faintly disappointed that no-one else realised the extent of his cleverness, back in Greenwich, in getting Martingale and Will to come up with the idea all on their own. He might just have to mention it to Sparrow, later.)

Eliza frowned at Will. “Mermaids? What does he mean?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply she pulled off a glove and put her hand to his forehead. “Oh, for goodness’ sake; this poor man’s burning up, and clearly delirious. Get him into bed, immediately!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” said Martingale snappishly, “Only you’re standing there arguing.”

He got Will into the bed. Djagdao pulled the covers over him, and sat down on the edge of the mattress, pulling a blanket over his shoulders. “My friend must rest. You must go,” he said baldly to Eliza, flat-eyed, unsmiling.

“I will return,” she said. “Tomorrow; with medicines for him. With a doctor.”

“I don’t think—” Sparrow began, but Martingale jumped in. “I sh’d be most grateful,” he said, “if a good doctor could be brought.”

Eliza looked appraisingly at Jamie Martingale; at the way he was knelt by Will’s side, at the way he stroked the man’s hair away from his face. “It’s no small relief to me that someone has this man’s welfare at heart,” she said, more gently.

“I do,” said Martingale, his green eyes dark with worry. “Oh, I promise you, ma’am, I do.”

*

At last she was gone; at last everyone had retired to their respective rooms, though Jack could still hear the occasional muffled curse from Burton and Djagdao (less than delighted with their new accommodation, but Martingale’d been adamant, and none of them really had the heart to move poor fevery Will).

Their bed was a wretched mess after the day’s long lazy (and not so lazy) hours. Jacks Sparrow and Shaftoe stood on either side of it, returning it to some form of order.

“Bedmaking,” declared Shaftoe, “is possibly the biggest waste of time mankind—or p’rhaps I should more properly say _womankind_ —has ever invented.” But he sighed with pleasurable satisfaction, nonetheless, when he climbed in; and again when Jack snuffed the candle and climbed in beside him, and they twisted together, bare and warm and uncharacteristically sated after the day’s private bacchanalia.

Jack yawned. “I’ve had about enough of womankind altogether,” he muttered. “Surely it’s time to go back to sea.”

“Couple more days,” said Shaftoe, nuzzling in close to Jack’s neck. “Jus’ a couple more. Lots more money from Mother Williams. Get Will better. See a bit of London…”

“If it ever stops bloody raining,” groused Jack.

“Oh… I din’t mind the rain,” said Shaftoe, low and slow and sleepy. His smiling mouth found Jack’s in the dark; and Jack could not find it in him to care whether England’s grey skies were ever clear again.


	26. European Physick, Chapter Twenty-Six

  
  
Jack's innate laziness and the vile weather had combined to produce a deadly inertia. He'd have liked nothing more than another day spent lounging in bed in the company of Jack Sparrow: a curiously subdued Sparrow, of late, but this was clearly the result of exposure to the local meteorology, and would pass once they'd sold the Cure, exhibited the Indians, discharged Jack's familial responsibilities and quit this vexing, pestilential ville. And anyway, Jack'd discovered some sovereign Remedies for London Weather, yesterday, and had gained considerable enjoyment from applying them.

'Twas not to be, though: once more, Jack's slow return to wakefulness was rudely accelerated by a thumping on the door, and John Burton begging leave to announce that there was a lady waiting below, to see Mr Shaftoe.

"Tell 'er I don't _know_ any ladies!" yelled Jack, rather hoping that he could be heard by his revoltingly matutinal visitor. "That she-devil Eliza, I'll lay," he said, gloomily, to Sparrow.

"I reckon she likes you, mate," murmured Jack Sparrow. Jack might've taken it as no more than a casual tease, if Sparrow's gaze hadn't been so cold and sharp. It was enough to make Jack shiver: and then, irritably, to decide that Jack Sparrow deserved something to be jealous _about_ , for a change. He rolled out of bed, stretching until his joints popped, and summoned up a grin.

"What can I say? P'rhaps she's heard the tales of my exotic Adventures --"

"Lies, all lies," proclaimed Jack Sparrow from beneath the covers. "Now, _I_ could tell a tale or two about you, Mr Shaftoe."

"No need for that," snapped Jack, pulling on his shirt. "Bloody Rumour's done her worst, the bitch."

"Perhaps," said Sparrow less amiably, twitching the counterpane away from his face to bare his gilded teeth at Jack, "perhaps you should impersonate _me_ , Jack. Given that you're so dismayed by the tales they're telling of Mr Jack Shaftoe, late of London Town, what better ruse than to assume to legend of Captain Jack Sparrow, of the _Black Pearl_?"

"But nobody round here's heard of you," said Jack cuttingly, and slammed the door behind himself. Not in time, though, to muffle the sound of Jack Sparrow getting the last word: "Yet."

Jack did not feel that the morning had begun especially well, and on reaching the common-room, he suspected that their pointless little bout of bickering had set the tone for the rest of the day. For here, indeed, stood the She-Devil, obnoxiously neat and clean in a demure grey dress: Jack had known the wench for less than a day, yet could already reliably identify her expression as an impatient one. Here, too, was her thuggish manservant -- Maggs, was it? no, Moggs -- glaring at Jack as though he'd some actual grievance with him; and here, resplendent in black robes and a foreign-looking hat, was an elderly gent who Jack'd never seen before.

"I assure you, madam," the elderly cove was saying as Jack came in, but he clammed up quick enough when Jack made a kind of bow to Eliza.

"True to my word, sir, I have returned," said Eliza, appraising him coolly. Her eyes lingered at his throat, and Jack resisted the urge to hunch into his shirt. Bloody Sparrow and his enthusiasm for leaving his signature all over Jack! Still, at least it wasn't a pox-chancre.

"So I see," said Jack. "And is this gentleman a doctor, then?"

"Doctor Case is a renowned physician," said Eliza, "and has kindly agreed to call upon the poor afflicted gentleman, rather than require him to undergo an arduous journey to the Doctor's house. I have explained to the Doctor that he should apply to you, sir, in matters pertaining to his account."

"How thoughtful of you," said Jack thinly. Bloody London! As soon as you'd got a penny, half a dozen people were dunning you for it. He'd forgotten how _expensive_ life on land could be.

"This is not the patient?" enquired Doctor Case of Eliza, peering at Jack myopically.

"Jack Shaftoe, at your service," lied Jack. "Adventurer and man of business." A still small common-sensical voice -- surely the inverse of his old mate the Imp, which'd been oddly silent of late -- warned him not to mention the Cure. The good Doctor probably had treatments aplenty for _that_ , and no desire to be edged out of the market.

"And the gentleman I am to examine? Really, madam, this is most irregular," added the Doctor, turning to Eliza.

"Nonsense," said the she-devil firmly. "The man is feverish, deluded: how much worse would his state be, having stumbled through the filthy streets, amid the rabble?"

Doctor Case stepped back, cowed: Jack, who had not much cared for the way that Eliza'd flicked a disparaging glance at him as she specified 'rabble', stood his ground.

"Contrary, sir, to what you may have been led to believe," he said to the Doctor, "the gentleman in question lives as one of us. He is our friend, not some sad oppress'd Slave: and I assure you that, had you not honoured us with your presence, we'd have conveyed him to a physician this very morning. In a chair, or a carriage: no need for him to be exposed to the rabble." And he turned a chilly glare upon Eliza.

That female, nothing abashed, met his gaze unsmiling. "You say so now," she began, "but --"

"If you please," interrupted Doctor Case, shooting Jack a panicky look. No doubt he'd had enough of the she-devil's strident tones already. "Might I be permitted to examine the patient?"

"I'll see if he's ... decent," said Jack. "Just a mo."

Upstairs, he hammered on the door of what'd formerly been Burton and Djagdao's room, now given over to Martingale and Will. Martingale, wearing only his coat, opened the door. Jack fixed his eyes on the gold ring in Martingale's ear, and tried not to think of where _Will_ wore his gold.

"Doctor's downstairs," he said, low enough that his voice wouldn't carry to those waiting below. "How's Will?"

"Not good, Jack," said Martingale, mouth downturned. "He's, he's burning hot, but says he's cold as death: an' I don't think he knows he's here, in London Town."

"Lucky fellow," said Jack. "Get your clothes on, mate, and I'll send the Doctor up: all right?"

"It ain't me he's going to 'xamine, is it?" said Martingale nervously.

"Not if you get dressed, no," said Jack impatiently, trying not to glance at the bare skin so inadequately concealed by that shabby coat. "Quick, now!"

He paused before the door of the room where Jack Sparrow lay abed: but no, let him stew a little. Stew, or sleep, or whatever he was doing so silently within. With luck, the whole confounded gang -- Eliza, Moggs, the Doctor -- would be gone soon enough, and Jack could start the morning afresh. The thought made him smile as he went back downstairs.

That smile lasted for exactly as long as it took him to realise that Eliza was speaking, not to Moggs or the Doctor or the sullen lad who served at the counter, but to another woman. Jack stopped dead on the stairs, feeling momentarily as fevered as poor Will. He recognised that voice.

"Here he comes now," said Eliza, loudly and cheerfully. "I can hear him on the stairs."

"There ain't another door, then?" said Clodagh Partry, and the two of them laughed together like, like raddled old hags in a gin-shop.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

But there was nothing to be done. No other exit from the place. He had to face the pair of 'em.

"Mistress Partry," said Jack, with a bow more effusive than the one he'd accorded Eliza (and thus eclipsing any greeting he'd ever made to Clodagh). "How delightful of you to call upon us again! And so early in the morning, too!"

"I find you're already entertaining visitors, Jack," said Clodagh primly. "I'm surprised to find you keeping such ... fine company."

"Oh, the novelty will exhaust itself in time," said Eliza sweetly. Clodagh bristled like an angry cat.

"Ladies," said Jack, turning his sunniest smile upon them both. "Doctor Case: your patient awaits you: third door, up the stairs. Young Mr Martingale is with him, and will assist you as necessary."

"Thank you," creaked the Doctor, heading for the stairwell with more agility than Jack would've reckoned possible.

"A physician, eh, Jack?" said Clodagh. "Who's that for, then?"

"One of our Indian friends," said Jack. "He's sufferring from a touch of fever."

"More than a touch!" cried Eliza indignantly: but Clodagh, more pragmatic, said, "Pricey fellows, physicians: your show must be doing nicely."

"Well, now you mention it," began Jack, perceiving a Trap.

"You won't mind buying the boys a new suit of clothes apiece, then," Clodagh went on, not actually holding out her hand but making it clear that she was not averse to having specie pressed into her palm. "Their old ones are too ragged to wear: some frightful accident must've befallen them."

Jack thought of that accident -- of fireworks on the roof of Bob's very respectable Limehouse gaff, and of the boys' evident enjoyment of loud noises and explosions, thus proving beyond a doubt their parentage -- and could not repress a smirk. Could not: but, on reflection, should have.

* * *

Jack Sparrow had not succeeded in regaining oblivion after Shaftoe's departure. Shaftoe had a poker up his arse about something, and his irritability was as contagious as plague: Jack found himself remarkably snappish, sarcastic and critical t'wards his love, and he did not care for his present mood. Might've persuaded himself out of it, if Shaftoe'd been in the slightest bit interested in returning to bed and being nicely apologetic to Jack. But no.

Jack's hearing was conveniently sharp, thank you very much, and he heard the piercing tones of Eliza's voice -- hah, serve Jack Shaftoe right, to be on the receiving end of the lady's latest diatribe -- and the deeper, less carrying voice of a man. Mayhap her gentleman sponsor, or, hmm, that doctor she'd promised to bring. Jack heard Shaftoe hurrying upstairs, and his rapid conversation with young Martingale, confirming his suspicions. The boards creaked outside their room, and Jack arranged himself in the bed, ready for a rude 'awakening': but it was not forthcoming, and he scowled at the closed door.

From below came the light, ringing tones of female conversation. Damn! The chit'd brought a friend! Or wait: was it the Judas-haired strumpet who'd shown up the other day with those infernal brats in tow?

Jack made himself comfortable, enjoying the notion (though he could not make out every word) of Shaftoe's twofold telling-off. That Eliza had a tongue on her, all right! And the other one, what's her name, Clodagh: she'd been a pert piece, though he hadn't got close enough for a good look. In Jack's experience, the prettier the girl, the less of a hardship it was when she went off on one.

A nagging worm of conscience wriggled at the back of his mind. Was it entirely fair to leave Shaftoe to face both of 'em, alone?

"Well-deserved," Jack told the worm firmly. "Hello? Pirate?"

But the bed, previously comfortable and musky, had become lumpy and stale-smelling: the light filtering in through the grimy window-pane was oddly bright and strangely yellow: and Jack's stomach rumbled, drowning out the high-pitched sounds of feminine annoyance that drifted up from below. It was probably time to get up.

He met the Doctor on the landing. "Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service, sir," he said, peering at the man. "And you are?"

"Doctor Case, sir."

"You've ... examined our friend?" enquired Jack, with half an ear for the disquisitions below, now considerably more audible.

The Doctor nodded gravely. "And left him with a dose, and strict instructions to the young man nursing him. Though I fear, Captain, that he cannot long escape the ravages of the Pox."

("... and your own two infant sons, Jack Shaftoe: you'll pay!" came Clodagh's sharp voice.)

"The Pox?" cried Jack, much relieved. "Oh, then --" and remembering just in time that he was speaking to a representative of London's medical profession, one of the very fellows least likely to approve of the import of a new and efficacious Cure from the New World, "-- then that's grave news indeed."

("A man who would abandon his own children," Eliza was saying.)

"Ah, but 'tis only the _Small_ Pox," the Doctor assured him. "And with God's grace, he will survive it. A foreign gentleman, is he not?"

"Indeed," said Jack, distracted by the sound of knocking from below. Who could that be? Damn'd Eliza was here already; ditto the chit who allegedly cared for Jack's sons (still an incredible, and not entirely pleasant, concept); could it be Swift Nick Nevison? About bloody time: it'd been days since Jack'd sent his letter, and he'd anticipated a response lent wings by greed. But wait, hadn't Jack told him to write to the pub 'round the corner? Or maybe it was --

"Excuse me, sir," he said over his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time, and bursting in upon the scene in the common-room just in time to startle Mother Williams' boy out of proclaiming his errand and his provenance. For if there was anything that was guaranteed to ratchet up all that feminine shrillness to a truly unbearable pitch, it was the notion of Immoral Earnings.

In short order, Jack had bidden the lad go upstairs and receive his instructions directly from Mr Martingale (who had better have copied out more Receipts while he'd been wiping the sweat from Will's fevered brow); introduced himself to Clodagh Partry, and professed himself unable to converse with either lady for appreciation of the other, a sentiment that made Clodagh simper and Eliza scowl mightily; apologised to the Doctor, to Clodagh and to the lad behind the counter for having come out without a penny in his pocket, but they might apply to him for settlement when he returned; and extracted himself and a mute, sullen Jack Shaftoe from the premises, hot pies in their hands, clam'rous Womankind left behind.

"Now, Mr Shaftoe," he said once they were clear of the doorway and hurrying west along Fenchurch Street, with no particular direction save Away. "Ain't you going to thank me for that gallant rescue?"


	27. European Physick, Chapter Twenty-Seven

  


A gallant rescue it might’ve been, but Jack—ever alert to the subtext of Jack Sparrow’s utterances and actions—was certain that it was not without Ulterior Motive. Ahead of him Sparrow walked faster and faster, head down and striding straight and true with none of his usual louche sway. Jack jogged to catch him up, swallowing the last of his pie. God alone knew what _Sparrow_ had to be upset about: was Jack himself not the innocent target of all that female ire, not to mention usury?

“Jack! Jack? Slow down, damn you!”

But Sparrow’s headlong passage did not slow. Did not slow until it was stopped, perforce, by the river’s edge; and even then he ploughed on down the cold stone steps, all edged with ice and green with weed, that led down to the water. A boatman was just pushing off; called to Sparrow, to see if he was seeking passage.

“No, sir: no.” And there he stopped, as though all the air’d been sucked from his lungs and the blood from his veins. Stopped, and stood, and stared at the water, at the bobbing ice, at all the boats about their business. Jack could only see his back, but there was something about the slump of his spine that… well, it was definitely sad. Jack put a hand, tentative and cold, to the pirate’s shoulder.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Nowhere,” Sparrow said after a pause, still staring off downriver. “Nowhere, Jack. We’re tied here by business and obligation and _fam’ly_ ,”—he all but spat the word—“and sickness: we’re goin’ nowhere.”

“It ain’t for long,” Jack argued. “We’ll be heading off soon enough, back to your ship, back to the sun; don’t be such a misery! You’re in London, man!”

“Not for long? How long till Will’s well again?”

Jack shrugged and fought down a scowl. Much as he’d like to be able to give a definitive and quantified answer to this question, he suspected it of rhetorical tendencies. “What’d the doctor say?” he asked, trying to pin down some sort of timeline. “What’s wrong with him? Fever? Ague?”

“Some little pox,” said Sparrow, with a vague wave of his hand that somehow ended up with his palm covering Jack’s knuckles, holding his hand close to Sparrow’s shoulder. “A small pox, he said. Not the Great Pox; but we could’ve told him that, eh?”

“Smallpox?” said Jack, slowly, the blood draining. “He’s got _smallpox?_ ”

“Aye.” Sparrow turned then, at the sound of Jack’s voice. “What of it? He said—the doctor said he’d probably be alright, Jack.”

“ _He_ probably couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there,” said Jack sourly. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, as if he could wipe the word _smallpox_ away. “That ain’t good.”

“What, will he…?” Sparrow’d paled, two spots of colour high on his face. “D’you think he’ll…? But plenty’ve had smallpox! Look at West’s scars! Or Davies’, rest his soul! He won’t be so pretty, after, but—”

“I was on a ship once,” Jack interrupted. “Down in France. And they was desperate to take on hands, Jack. For they’d had a crew that was half Lascars, and the smallpox went through ‘em like a scythe through corn, they said. Indians and what-have-you, they ain’t grown up with it like we have. It does for ‘em.” He felt queasy at the thought of what might happen to Will. Oh, how he understood Jack Sparrow’s urge to run back to his ship, to run and sail and flee!

“It _does for ‘em?_ ” said Jack Sparrow, and his voice cracked. “But I—oh, shit, I just left poor Jamie with it, and had no thought but to get away from all those damn’d demanding women, to get out here with you, to get to the river, and…”

Jack said nothing: just held out his hand. Sparrow gave one last longing glance eastward and then took it. Jack led him up the slipp’ry and treacherous steps, and did not let go, not all the way home, not though half of London might see those clasped hands and stare and jeer at him.

*

They were gone, all gone, from the common-room. Jack stood there for a moment, still holding Shaftoe’s warm hand.

“Right,” he said, mostly to himself. “Right. Optimism, eh, Jack? Surely the order of the day.”

“Right,” said Shaftoe, who appeared to’ve lost his wonderful ability to lie credibly.

With a heavy heart, Jack mounted the stairs, and knocked gently on Will and Martingale’s door.

Jamie Martingale looked terrible. Ashen, with great dark circles under his eyes. He was perched on the edge of the bed, a flask in one hand and a spoon in the other. And in the bed…

“How is he?” said Jack, conversationally, not really wanting to look too closely. There was a sour smell of sick in the room, and the chamberpot needed emptying. It was cold, horridly cold. Shaftoe pushed through behind him, said, “Let me see t’this fire, Jamie.”

“But he’s so fevery,” said Jamie. “I thought…”

“You’ll only make yourself sick too,” said Shaftoe, snapping kindling.

Will’s breathing was thick, fast. He mumbled something in his own tongue.

“What’s that? What’s he want?”

“I don’t know,” Jamie said. “Will, come: please, try to drink this. The doctor said it would make your head feel better.”

Jack knelt by the bed and helped to prop Will a little more upright. The Indian’s skin was waxy and mottled, the tiny hairs standing proud. He stared at Jack, and said something else incomprehensible.

“Where’s Djagdao? Djagdao!” Jack yelled.

“Burton won’t let him come,” said Jamie bitterly. “Says he’ll get sick too.”

A surge of anger washed over Jack, and then another of pity. For what John Burton had already been through. Oh, he could understand it, if Burton was afraid. “’Course,” he said neutrally. “Don’t need two to nursemaid, do we, Jamie?”

“Here, Will… that’s it,” Jamie coaxed, and tipped a spoonful of dark syrup between cracked lips. Behind him, light bloomed as Shaftoe brought the fire back to life. Will’s eyes closed; Jack let him sink back against the sweat-damp pillows.

“He cain’t do the show,” Jamie said, and Jack felt a monster that the boy would even feel the need to say such a thing. “Fuck the show,” he said. “We don’t need that any more. Have you eaten, Jamie?”

“I don’t want anything.” Jamie shook his head. “Couldn’t.”

“Got to eat,” said Shaftoe, all brisk, and disappeared down the stairs.

“Look,” Jamie whispered, and he put his hand to Will’s cheek, his thumb near the corner of his mouth. Right there, where his lips met: a pink mark, rough and sore.

“It’ll be a pox, soon. All fat wi’ pus.” Jamie’s lips twisted.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. West had it, ‘member? An’ Davies? It only leaves a little mark.”

“Doctor said they’d come everywhere. All over him, Jack. All over his skin.” Jamie’s hand moved gently over the blanket, over Will’s body. “What’d I do to him, Jack? Bringing him here?”

“You, Jamie, did nothing but good to this man. An’ you’re still doing good to him now, ain’t you? Taking care of him? Anyway, the doctor told me he’d be fine.” Jack left off the “with God’s grace” bit. It didn’t seem helpful under the circumstances.

“That ain’t what his face said,” Jamie muttered, and Jack could’ve kicked himself for not being with the lad while the bloody doctor was here making his miserable pronouncements.

“Doctors,” he said dismissively. “What do they know? Did any doctor cure me an’ Jack?”

Jamie jerked upright, and a bright sheen of hope appeared in his eyes. “That’s a pox cure, ain’t it, Jack? Your Cure? Shouldn’t we, couldn’t we…?”

“No,” said a deep voice from the doorway. Djagdao. “This is a white man’s sickness. Our medicines have no power over it.”

“You don’t know that!”

Djagdao shrugged. “Torture him with it if you must. But it will not help him.”

Jamie Martingale leapt to his feet, hands clenching into fists. “ _You_ won’t bloody help him at all! You won’t even come into the damn room! If you ain’t going to help your friend, why don’t you just _fuck off?_ ”

Djagdao looked away, and flushed. “I promised,” he said. “I promised John. But I am breaking my promise, now: to come and say goodbye.”

“What d’you mean?” demanded Jack, who for a brief but unpleasant moment thought that the Indian was here to administer some savage sort of Last Rites.

“We’re leaving,” said Burton, coming up behind the Chibcha, all coated and hatted and with a packed bag slung over one shoulder. “We’re going back to the ship, Captain.”

Fuck. What a day this was turning out to be. “I don’t,” Jack said slowly, “recall giving you any such order. Or indeed any such permission, Mr Burton.”

“Sorry, Jack.” Burton could not look at him, but he was strung tight as a bow. “I won’t… I can’t… stay. Can’t let him get sick. I can’t… you know what I can’t bloody do, Jack,” he finished, urgently. “Don’t ask me to do’t!”

What was there to say? Jack did know, knew very well, what it was that he could not ask Burton to do. And after that hideous incident on their return to the reef, after thinking for a day that he’d lost Jack Shaftoe, he knew exactly what Hell he’d be asking Burton to revisit. No man could ask that of another.

“Say your goodbyes, then,” he said. “Or rather your _au revoirs_ : for as soon as Will’s better, we’ll be back aboard, and sailing together to brighter climes.”

Burton relaxed, and nodded. “Thank you, Cap’n,” he said, all low.

Djagdao came in, and Jack ceded his place by the head of Will’s bed. Burton muttered, “Don’t touch him, don’t get too—” but was silenced by a fearsome glare from the Chibcha.

He put a hand to Will’s forehead, and when Will opened his eyes, smiled. He spoke to him, in their language, and Jack was pleased to see Will smiling back.

“Until I see you again, my brother,” he said in English, and Djagdao nodded. “Until I see you again,” he echoed. “Until then, I will wear your gods on my skin, and keep them here in England, where they will find you if you need them.”

He turned to Jamie then, and said gravely, “Thank you. For all that you do for him.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Jamie, hard-jawed. “It ain’t but what I want to do. To stay with my friend, and care for him.”

Djagdao looked away again. Jack privately thought that Burton would pay a big price, one way or another, for asking this of his friend. Low, Djagdao said, “If… Jamie, if… his name is not Will. His name is Weihahi. That is the name that should go with him.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” said Jamie.

_Weihahi,_ Jack said to himself. Weihahi.

He watched Burton and Djagdao from the window. As they turned into Rood Lane, the Indian turned and stared back at their lodgings; then Burton put an arm about his shoulders, and he turned away.

*

“They’re sleeping,” Shaftoe said, coming into their room that night and closing the door quiet and careful behind him. “Both of ‘em. That medicine of the Doctor’s ain’t much but a sleeping draught, I reckon; I put some in Martingale’s wine, any road, and the pair of ‘em went out like a light.”

“Good. My thanks, Jack. You ain’t been getting too close, though, have you?”

“Oh, don’t you start. Anyway, I’d like to see the pox that’d attempt to reinfect my corpus, now,” said Shaftoe. “After the Cure.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots, and let himself fall backward onto the mattress, arms spread wide. The pose pulled fabric tight over his chest and groin, outlined all the glories that he had to offer; Jack could not resist the cheer of such a display after this long and joyless day, but joined him on the mattress, straddling him and toying with his shirtlaces as he asked, “D’you think, then, that we should try the Cure on Will?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“I beg to differ, it hurt like fuck actually.”

“Wonder how Flora’s gone wi’ that,” mused Shaftoe, and added somewhat belatedly, “An’ the other girls, of course.”

Girls! Always bloody girls! _Honey,_ Jack told himself firmly, _is a better flycatcher than vinegar._ So he smiled, and said, “Listen, Jack, if you want to go back an’ see her… if you want to see anyone, any woman, it don’t bother me any. I know they’ve got their uses. An’ I must say you know some very _pretty_ females. Flora, Clodagh, Eliza: not a gorgon in the whole bunch.”

“I s’pose they ain’t so bad,” said Shaftoe with a cocky grin that made that dimple appear on his cheekbone. “As long as they keep their mouths shut.”

“Oooh no,” said Jack wickedly, “they wouldn’t be half so much fun with their mouths shut. They just need to be _mute_ , that’s all.” He pushed Shaftoe’s shirt up, stroking all that lovely warm velvety skin where it stretched over ribs and breastbone. Not thinking about poor Will’s skin, and what’d befall it soon.

“Which’d you choose, then? Given the opportunity?” Shaftoe wanted to know. Though the gentle swell of his cock against Jack’s thigh, and the way his hips were undulating, spoke volumes about his own choice; and Jack could not but accept this offer of comforting distraction.

“Hmmm… well, that Eliza’s a lot like you really. Those blue eyes, that yellow hair.”

“Oh, just like me, save that she’s the most monstrous opinionated, superior, interfering busybody.”

“Come, don’t let’s confuse the question with issues of _personality_ , Jack. This is a simple decision on the basis of surface appearances.”

“Well, I did think she was rather gorgeous, before she opened her trap. But…”

“But…?” said Jack, as Shaftoe wrestled his shirt over his head and revealed his glorious broad muscular shoulders for Jack’s delectation.

“But I like ‘em dark, I’ve decided. Dark, and lusty.” He put his hands to Jack’s waist and held him tight, as though he were the perfect exemplar. “So I’d have to stick with Flora, obviously. And yourself? Who’d you pick? In the absence, of course, of me. The blonde, by the sounds of it?”

“Oh, there’s blondes and there’s blondes, Jack. There’s the cool sort, like Eliza, and then there’s the devilish warm sort, like yourself: and having… tasted you,” (Jack said, doing just that, with the very tip of his tongue against Jack Shaftoe’s nipple) “I really don’t think I could go back. And ‘sides, I hear those Partry girls are devils under the blankets. So it’s young Clodagh for me.”

“Glad we’ve got that sorted,” said Shaftoe, as he pulled Jack down by his beard braids, and fastened his open mouth upon Jack’s own. He kissed Jack hard and deep and thorough, till Jack’s blood began to seethe and his prick to throb dully.

“What say,” muttered Jack thickly, “that we don’t resort to girls, just yet?”


	28. European Physick, Chapter Twenty-Eight

  


Jack Shaftoe had, at an early age, developed a gift for selective amnesia: had found it an invaluable accessory in maintaining the merry-Vagabond mask he'd so often donned in adversity. Why waste time revisiting the sorrows of yesterday? Today would surely bring more -- and if it didn't, if it presented (as was all too rarely the case) some sharp new pleasure or delicious sin, then all the better to overlay those late and unlamented events in brighter paint.

Thus, it had never been his custom to spend those first few minutes of wakefulness reckoning up his position, so to speak, in history: and if he'd ever acquired that habit, he'd have cast it aside smartly once he took up with Jack Sparrow, who offered so much more _blissful_ an awakening.

Jack stirred, and smiled, and cracked one eye open: smiled more at the prospect before him, that of Jack Sparrow bare and warm and agleam with lazy lust, leaning over him, his lips still glistening from the slow sweet kiss he'd bestowed on Jack.

"Morning," murmured Jack, tilting his hips to meet Sparrow's questing hand. The room was very light -- could that be _sunshine_ , outside? -- and surprisingly warm.

"Good morning, Jack," said Sparrow.

"Is that a promise?" queried Jack with a grin, hooking his foot over Sparrow's taut calf-muscle.

"D'you have any complaints so far?" countered Sparrow, punctuating his question with a fleeting kiss to Jack's collarbone.

"Well," said Jack, conjuring a frown and waiting for the kiss to be repeated, with elaborations. He writhed sleepily, sighing, as Sparrow's strong fingers curled 'round his yard. Sparrow's knee nudged its way between his thighs, and Jack, after a token protest, decided that cooperation would be the most beneficial course for them both. Sparrow's own prick was pushing and sliding against the crease of Jack's thigh, and his fingers were working their way back to cup Jack's balls, gentle and warm, and then to slide along that smooth seam of skin: and all the while Sparrow's tongue was speckling Jack's skin with points of glowing warmth, and his hair was tickling Jack's chest, and the bone-decked braid in his hair was dragging across Jack's skin in a way that, as soon as Jack noticed it, made him want to bury himself in Sparrow's throat, or possibly engulf Sparrow's prick in his own.

"If you're just going to _tease_ ," he muttered, "then ..."

"Then what, Jack?" said Sparrow sweetly, surfacing from his latest unhurried kiss. There was a red mark above Jack's heart where Sparrow's mouth had been: a sweet wholesome red mark, nothing like a Pox-chancre, nothing like disease.

"Then ... then I'll have to take the upper hand," said Jack, gathering his mazy thoughts: and he bucked up against Sparrow, bringing their cocks into alignment, and then could not stop rocking up against him, that bright rough bliss ...

He'd intended to roll Jack Sparrow over, and feast his eyes (and every other sense) on the glorious treasure-trove thus presented: but Sparrow was at his most distracting, and before Jack could act upon his Impulse, that _other_ longing of his was brought to truth, and a warm wicked mouth swallowed him down, and dextrous fingers teased and flexed, and stilled, and twitched, 'til Jack was near hoarse with begging -- nay, demanding -- what Sparrow so deliciously withheld. And Sparrow'd twisted around on the messy bed, close enough for Jack to reach out and wrap his hand 'round that delectable prick, to distract Jack Sparrow back 'til he forgot all his wiles and gave Jack, straight and simple, what they both avidly desired.

"We sh'd see how Will's getting along," said Jack eventually, once his breathing had steadied and his pulse slowed to a more sedate pace.

"Mmmm," said Sparrow, curling closer to Jack.

"That Doctor'll need paying," said Jack. "But I reckon he knew what he was about." Trying to put a brave face on it: trying to turn the pleasure still fizzing in his veins into optimism and, what was that phrase of Enoch's, Positive Thinking, regarding Will's illness. "Will'll be right as rain in a day or two."

"What's so right about rain?" argued Sparrow, craning up to peer at the opaquely dirty window-pane. "Though this might be the English _summer_ you've spoken of: it seems remarkably clement, out there."

"Perhaps the fresh air'd help Will," suggested Jack, reaching for his shirt.

But when he tapped on the door of Will and Jamie's room, and pushed it open at Martingale's hoarse "Yes?", it was obvious that Will was in no state to walk anywhere. The pallor of his skin had a distinctly ashen cast, between the berry-red smears -- like paintwork, but lumpily swollen -- of the pox. His long lashes were gummy and bleared, and the pulse fluttering at his throat alarmingly weak. The room stank of illness, of bodily humours and of despair. Martingale was huddled on the bed next to Will: he scarcely looked up at their entrance.

"Christ," said Jack under his breath: then, "Jamie, mate, is there anything we can do?"

Jamie Martingale did not look much better than his patient. Jack examined him surreptitiously for pox-symptoms, but though greasy-looking sweat beaded his forehead, the skin beneath it was clear, if grimy. He'd managed to keep the fire going, last night, and the room was muggy and warm. Probably better that way, thought Jack: sweat the sickness out of him. Out of 'em both.

"Jamie," he said, low. "Have you had the Pox? Any kind of pox?"

Martingale shook his head. "Not like this," he said. "I had something I caught off ... off a friend." Was he blushing? "A farm girl."

Jack felt Sparrow twitch beside him. Was it the (undeniably odd) thought of Jamie Martingale keeping company with a _girl_?

"And yourself, Mr Shaftoe?" said Sparrow. "How many poxes have _you_ defeated?"

Jack could not help but smirk. "Lost count, mate," he said. "And they do say that those who've beaten one can beat another." His eyes lingered on the labouring body in the bed. "Poor old Will never had the chance to beat any, til now," he said more soberly. "And if you've never had it, Jack, you ain't safe. Stay back, eh? I'll do aught that needs doing."

"There's nothing needs doing," snapped Martingale. "What he needs is ... is peace and quiet."

If he hadn't blushed as he said it, and glanced at the wall, Jack might've missed his meaning: but 'twas plain enough, and he'd've laughed out loud if not for the solemnity of the occasion.

"Did we, were we ..."

"I beg pardon for having disturbed your rest, Mr Martingale," interrupted Sparrow with elaborate courtesy. "And for any other equilibriums we might've imbalanced, in the heat of the moment."

Martingale, delightfully, blushed more. "Captain, I'm sorry. I din't mean --"

"Not a word, Mr Martingale: you've the right of it. Will, there, needs to rest, and you need to sleep, and how will you do that, eh, with all the racket Mr Shaftoe makes?"

Jack bridled at this, but decided that the argument (and, oooh, the Proof) would wait. This was not the time or the place, with Will dying -- no, not dying: Jack tried in vain to unthink the doomy thought -- with Will barely sensible, lying there with only Jamie Martingale to tend him.

"'Sides," said Martingale, "that Doctor said he'd come by this morning for his fee: and I'll bet Mistress Eliza will be with him."

"Perhaps you're right," said Jack breezily. "We'll leave you in peace, Jamie: I'll have the boy bring some hot food up for you both. It's a fine day, and Captain Sparrow's not seen a tenth of the delights of London Town. Jack?"

"I confess I've no desire to attend another Lecture on the evils of Slavery," said Sparrow. "Though if _I_ had a slave like Mistress Eliza, I'd've trained her to keep her mouth shut. Mr Martingale," he added, reaching into his pocket, "here's the Doctor's fee, and more besides, in case Mother Williams's lad doesn't call on you today. We'll be back later; and if there's anything you need, mate, send for it, and never mind the cost."

"Th-thankee, Captain," stammered Jamie Martingale, closing his hand on the bright coins without glancing at them. "You're most kind."

"Anything we can do?" enquired Jack.

"Nothing," said Jamie: and, softly against the pillow, "Nothing."

* * *

"Very well, Mr Shaftoe: perhaps there's some truth in your asseverations that England has seasons other than Winter."

Shaftoe snorted. "Thought you'd been here before?"

"A long time ago," said Jack. "It was raining."

"It's not raining now," said Shaftoe.

Indeed it was not. A pale-gilt sun did its best to illumine the thoroughfares and byways of the City, though Jack -- peering into a doorway, up an alley, through an open window -- decided that he'd preferred a veiling gloom of drizzle. The weathercocks atop the church-spires glinted merrily ("Only brass," said Shaftoe, following the line of his gaze; "'t'ain't worth the labour of climbing up to get it.") and white, puffy clouds skittered across the sky. An odorous miasma rose visibly from the heaped rubbish in the gutter.

"So, this fresh air you reckon'll do us both so much good," said Jack Sparrow; "where shall we find it, then?"

"The healthful vitality of London's Atmosphere has armoured me, I'll have you know, against all manner of noxious tropical vapours! But," Shaftoe's tone gentled, and Jack could practically hear the cogs of his brain grinding into some new alignment, "but if you'd rather be indoors on such a fine day, I've a notion of where we might discover some Entertainment."

Jack suppressed a sigh. He felt he knew where this was leading. "Would that be a visit to, oooh, let's see, a house of ill-repute, Jack? An establishment in charming, leafy Southwark, perchance?"

"What?" said Shaftoe, with credible blankness: then he took Jack's meaning and grinned. "Thought we'd decided that women were our last resort," he murmured, stooping slightly so that his warm breath fanned Jack's neck and made him shiver. "Or have you changed your mind since this morning?"

"Certainly not," said Jack, much cheered. "No house of ill repute, then?"

"Depends how you look at it," said Jack. "D'you like coffee?"

 

"If we're to sit around indulging our Vices," said Jack Sparrow, gesturing for a refill, "I'd like to express a preference for the _alcoholic_ kind."

"Sssh," said Shaftoe, grinning. "We're not staying. Just ... looking for information."

Jack took the ink-smeared news-sheet that Shaftoe'd nabbed from the next table, and spread it out in front of them both. "Ooh," said Jack, "'Death of a Notorious Highwayman.' Wonder if it's your ... acquaintance, that Nevison fellow?" That might explain the lack of any communication. Either that, or he hadn't received Jack's letter. Or he couldn't read. Or ...

"Good riddance," retorted Shaftoe. "Is it him, then?"

"Nah," said Jack, reading on. "This one's a young lass: pardon me, a _lady_. Is that the information you were hoping for, Mr Shaftoe?"

"Not at all," said Shaftoe, "unless it's that Eliza." He drained his cup and leaned t'wards Jack. "Somewhere in that Grub Street flimsy, mate, there's advertisements for playhouses: how'd you care for an exhibition of the _thespian_ arts, eh, Jack?"

"Lord, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack gaily, "I fear you'll corrupt me utterly." He peered at the dense, smudged black print. "Here's one: 'Aureng-Zebe, or, The Great Moghul', at --"

"Seen it," said Shaftoe. "It's crap."

"'The Atheist, or, The Soldier's Fortune'."

"Does it say who it's by?"

"'The esteem'd author of 'Venice Preserv'd'," read Jack. "'A comedy.'"

"Bloke couldn't write a laundry list," opined Shaftoe, leaning back in his chair and rocking it onto its back legs. "What else?"

"'The City Heiress'?"

Shaftoe rolled his eyes. "A romance, no doubt."

"'The Disappointment, or, The Mother In Fashion'? He's a brave soul, letting us know what to expect ... 'The Country Wife'?"

"Oh _yes_ ," said Shaftoe, letting his chair thud down and his coffee spill, his eyes alight with a blue flame of wickedness that Jack's own smile soon mirrored. "Where's it playing?"

 

They'd abandoned their coffee (a bitter, acorn-flavoured brew) and a good third of the gristly pie they'd been sharing: Shaftoe was adamant that they should reach the theatre before the play began at three o'clock, and by the time they arrived Jack -- unaccustomed to hurrying, especially in such busy streets -- was quite out of breath. The pit, it seemed, was full, and Shaftoe looked dismayed.

"How much for a box?" enquired Jack, waving his companion to silence.

"A crown," said the lad.

"Worth every penny," said Jack expansively, handing over five clipped and blackened shillings as Shaftoe began to impugn the doorman's honesty. "C'mon, Mr Shaftoe: our box awaits."

And it _was_ worth every penny to Jack, to see the broad beaming smile on Shaftoe's face: to watch him leaning over the parapet of their cramped -- but promisingly _private_ \-- box, pointing out the famous and the infamous in the mob below. "There's Mistress Rogers, who keeps a bawdy-house in Holborn ... that pair of gents over there, they're from the Theatre Royal, prob'ly seeing if they can find what makes a play so _popular_ with the Mobb; and there, that cove with the feather in his hat, that's the Earl of Maldon, and that must be his niece, ha ha."

Jack nodded and smiled as though he gave a damn who any of these people were: nodded and smiled, admiring the way that Shaftoe's breeches stretched over his arse.

"How long's this play, then, Jack?" he enquired casually, nudging one of the empty chairs with his boot until it was jammed under the door-handle.

"Oooh, a couple of hours at least," said Shaftoe. "Have you got a shilling, Jack?"

"What for?"

Shaftoe snapped his fingers impatiently, grinning, and Jack handed over another coin. Pricey lark, this theatre-going: and yet Shaftoe seemed to've set aside all his cares. He'd tossed the coin down into the pit, not forcefully enough to do any real damage: now something round and bright rose swiftly past the box, and Shaftoe caught it deftly. Another; another; another.

"Oranges!" he proclaimed, depositing the fruit in Jack's lap and himself in his chair.

"Lovely," said Jack. "Though I have to tell you, Jack, that I've a taste for something more _savoury_."

"The play's not entertaining enough for you, then?" enquired Shaftoe, gesturing at the stage, where a fellow in the robes and wigs of a doctor was telling his friend how he'd made him out to be a Eunuch, thus providing not only a Cure but an Antidote against Love and all other Women's Evils. "It's a grand one, this: nearly banned by the Lord Chancellor for obscenity."

"Oh, I sh'll watch it most attentively," said Jack smugly. "I do enjoy a little _obscenity_. But I collect you've seen it played before, Jack: so it won't matter if you don't see every minute, will it?"

When the gin-seller came round, hammering on the door with her stoppered flasks and her winks and her "Anything else I can do for you, sir?" Jack just shook his head, eager to be rid of her. Eager for Jack Shaftoe -- on his knees, head in Jack's lap, conveniently hidden by the open door -- to distract him all over again, while on the stage _inferior_ entertainments played.


	29. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Twenty-Nine

  


Jack Shaftoe’d been true to his word, and not ten minutes after the door shut behind him it’d opened again, admitting Mistress Guilpin’s small and put-upon errand boy, with a plateful of pies and a jug of small beer; but the mere thought of food roiled unpleasantly in Jamie’s innards. He’d sent the lad away again, with a new errand.

An awkward knock on the door signalled his return, and Jamie held a blanket round his hips and let the boy in with his burdens. A large bowl, and a heavy jug of steaming water; best of all, a sweet herb-scented washball and some clean linen cloths.

“Them Injuns is dirty, in’t they?” whispered the child, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the room; and Jamie, suddenly fizzy and speechless with rage and not trusting himself to speak, threw a coin past the boy’s shoulder and shoved him back out into the dim passageway, slamming the door behind him. He took a deep breath, and turned back to his patient; was relieved to see that he slept still.

“Will? Here, Will…” he murmured. He let the blanket fall as he knelt by the side of the bed, filling the basin and soaking a cloth, and patting Will’s face clean. “Here, darlin’, this’ll make you feel better…” He could not bear, not for one more minute, to see that beautiful skin all grimy with sweat and dirt, whatever people said about the dangers of bathing too often.

Will opened his eyes, and gave Jamie a sweet half-smile as he stretched himself awake. He looked more himself, Jamie thought; there was a brightness in his dark eyes. The curtains were still drawn, for Will said the daylight hurt his head, and in the dim dappled light the rashy marks on his skin might just be shadows. He let Jamie pull the covers back, submitted silently to the water and the washball and Jamie’s careful hands. Jamie could feel, every moment, Will’s gaze upon him, and every time he looked up there it was, locked and warm. Almost like… almost like before Will got sick.

_Can’t think ‘bout those things now. ‘T’ain’t right._

“There,” said Jamie, cleaning himself the same, though much more brusquely. “Don’t that feel a sight better?”

“Much better; and we smell better too,” said Will with a wry twist of his mouth. “But here, Jamie: I think maybe you did not clean me here.” He ran his hand over his hip, where the faded shadows of Djagdao’s gods still lurked.

Jamie swallowed, hypnotised by the languorous stroke of those fingertips. “I did, love, I—”

“Do it again. With your hand.”

Jamie dipped his hand in the warm water, slid his palm gently over the patch of yet-unmarked skin on Will’s side.

“You did not clean me here,” Will said again, all low, and ran his hand up the inside of his thigh; and Jamie, heart pounding, could not resist following the path that hand took with his own. Saw the dull glint of gold as Will’s cock swelled and straightened.

“Oh Will,” he said, helplessly. “Oh, we mustn’t, we shouldn’t, you’re—”

“Please,” was all Will said: and how could Jamie argue it, how could he, when he knew what was coming to this dear man? And when, oh God, he wanted it so much himself, this sweet chance that might be his last. Shadows, he told himself. Those marks are just shadows; the burning heat of him, why, ‘tis just the summer sun. He ran his fingertips gently up Will’s thigh, and climbed up on the bed, spreading himself out against the warm length of him, closing his eyes and feeling every single point at which their bodies touched. He nuzzled into the crook of Will’s neck, hot and dry and smelling of sage. “What d’you want, then?” he whispered. “Anything, Will, anything you want. You want my hand? My mouth?”

“No, Jamie. No. I am marked, I am not really clean. You cannot make me clean, now.”

“Shh, I don’t care, I don’t, I—”

“But _you_ are clean. You are so perfect and clean and so beautiful,” whispered Will, and his fever-hot hands ran over Jamie’s body, light and shivery as a bird’s wing. Like a phoenix, all aflame. And before Jamie could protest, he was pushed over on his back, and Will’s burning mouth was making its way over his chest, his long black hair falling between them like a curtain; his hand was down at Jamie’s groin, and the pleasure of his touch was somehow doubled by the wrongness of it.

He was moving down, was kneeling between Jamie’s spread thighs; was lifting Jamie’s knee, bending him, twisting him. Wrong, wrong, wrong. “Oh, Will, no, you’re sick, you mustn’t, you should rest, you should—”

“I _should_ use these hours,” said Will, low and fierce and looking up from between the dark wings of his hair, “to show you, Jamie Martingale, what you have been to me. What I feel for you. And what I feel for you is this. This want. This… desire. _Let me_.” And he did not take his eyes from Jamie’s as he licked a long hot trail up the inside of Jamie’s thigh.

Jamie shivered, and sighed, and deliquesced. Let his knees fall apart, closed his eyes, let Will’s clever hands and generous mouth and tickling hair take him out of this miserable place with all its fear and stink and dirt. Wanted it too much, far too much, to say no.

He tried not to push and shove and demand, even when the violent beauty of it was coursing and shuddering through him, even when he could not stop the cries and curses that were fighting to escape his mouth. He tried, but oh god, Will was so, so, so determined, so knowing; knew every part of Jamie’s body and what made it tingle, spark, shiver. Knew just how long he could hold Jamie back from the edge; knew just when Jamie had to hurl himself over it or be driven mad by the taunting, beckoning beauty of it.

Knew just how wracked and drained, how monstrous and adoring and terrified Jamie’d feel when he’d poured his pleasure into that poor, sick, impossibly hot throat and had cried that pleasure aloud in garbled words of blasphemy and love; knew, and came and licked away Jamie’s tears, and whispered, “That is what I feel for you. Here in this world, and in any other world to come.”

 

 

“Will? Darlin’?”

Will was tired now, curled exhausted in Jamie’s arms. He made a murmuring sound, and rubbed his face against Jamie’s shoulder. He was slick with sweat again, shivery though the heat radiating from him kept Jamie warm without a single blanket. At the corner of his mouth, Jamie could see a gathering paleness, where the first of the pox-marks was filling with liquid.

He bit his lip. Would not look at it. Would not. But the sight made him even more sure and determined.

“Will, we have to try it. I don’t care what Djagdao said. It’s a pox, ain’t it? What harm could it do, to try?”

Will was silent.

“Please? Please let me try? I’ll be careful, I swear, I won’t hurt you much, it’ll be quick, I promise.” But he knew that it was not fear of any pain that kept Will silent. It was fear of hope; and fear of its even crueler reverse, having no hope left at all. Jamie stroked Will’s hair, from the top of his skull all the way down to where it spread warm and shining over Jamie’s chest, pitchy against his pale skin. “If you don’t tell me nay,” he whispered, “then I’m goin’ to do it, Will. I have to. I couldn’t bear it, if I didn’t, and if you… if you got sicker.”

Will heaved a sigh, and put his hand over Jamie’s. “Go,” he said. “Go and get what you need.”

The chest in the Captain’s room was not locked, for a mercy, though Jamie was sure he would’ve found some way into it if it had been. No lock would stop him now. He took two of the wooden spills, and a packet of the tea, and stood in the cold room for a silent shaky moment, the new blanket he’d bought Will clutched around his shoulders, staring at the Cure and begging every god he could think of.

Back in their room he gave Will the Doctor’s concoction, first. It took the edge off everything. He held the blade of his knife in the flames to clean it, and then climbed up on the bed, straddling Will’s thighs, trying to still the tremble in his limbs. He arranged the spills on the sheet, and his knife, and a cloth. Will lay beneath him, sleepy-eyed and trusting. On his belly, the painted shapes were distorting and disappearing beneath a slow welter of round, raised pox-marks.

Will smiled. The doctor’s medicine was taking hold. “So strange,” he murmured. “To see you thus, Jamie; here, and bare, with me, and yet…”

“I know. Yet this ain’t about us an’ our pleasures. Not this time.”

“You are always my pleasure. Always.” And Will caught up Jamie’s hand, put it on himself; Jamie rubbed his thumb over that heathen gold, and Will made a small pleased sound.

“Later, darlin’,” Jamie whispered. “Later. When you’re well.” He took up his knife, searching with his fingertips for a place that was all unmarked. “Lie still, now; shhhh, don’t move…”

He’d known Will wouldn’t move, wouldn’t flinch from his blade, though it wasn’t sharp enough and Jamie had to push hard, cut again. The sweet skin parted, and blood welled darkly; Jack Shaftoe’d told this tale enough times that Jamie knew just what he should do. He pushed the point of his knife under the skin, making a pocket for the wood. _Just like skinning a rabbit,_ Shaftoe’d said, with wicked relish, and they’d all laughed and squirmed.

No laughing now. Jamie slid the first spill in and pushed the hair back from his damp forehead. “One done,” he murmured. “Nearly there, Will.”

Will swallowed, and his breath was fluttery in the still air, his thigh muscles taut as iron. Jamie cut him again. Cut him, and slid the blade in, and the spill after it, and then let out a long shaky sigh. There was blood on his fingertips. He reached down with a trembling hand, tracing a long crimson line along the curve of a faded god. Traced his way down to Will’s groin, and anointed him there. “It’s done, my love,” he whispered. “Done.”

Will looked down his body, pale with pain but all mazy-eyed from the Doctor’s tincture. He let out a soft laugh. “Huitaca,” he said. “You draw Huitaca.”

“Which one’s that? I know you tol—”

The sharp rap on the door sent a shock through him, after the tension of the last minutes. “Wait,” he cried, louder and sharper than he meant; and perhaps it was the panicky sound of that word that made Mistress Eliza decide to ignore the request and throw open the door.

Her eyes grew wide, her mouth dropped open for a moment before both her hands flew up to cover it: Jamie saw the two of them, clear, through her eyes. Him naked and perched there knife in hand atop his Painted Savage, the blood on the man’s body, the raising pustules, the savage bloody jut of the wooden spills, the gold gleaming in Will’s half-hard cock beneath Jamie’s fingers. He was frozen, shaking his head, a panicky smile forming before any words of explanation could emerge.

“ _Moggs!_ ” shrieked Eliza. “Oh my God, _Moggs!_ ”

“It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s—” Jamie cried, and put up a hand as the great muscled manservant rushed in. But it was the hand with the knife, and perhaps that was what made Moggs roar like a bull, and bring back one great fist.


	30. European Physick, Chapter Thirty

  
  
"Best bit?" said Jack Shaftoe, light-headed with gin and dramaturgy. "For my money, that was when Horner was locked away with the lady, and they pretended she was choosing _china_ , and 'er husband said they were 'playing the wag'!"

 

 

Sparrow laughed. "Or when the country lass was dressed up as a lad --"

 

 

"-- a very _pretty_ lad, I reckon --"

 

 

"-- and Horner said she was too handsome to be a man!"

 

 

"Aye," said Jack, glancing up at the windows of their rooms as they reached the corner opposite the cookshop. "I s'pose that's what they say of _you_ , Captain Sparrow: far too pretty to be a fellow, eh?" He paused to let a laden dray creak past, and looked Sparrow up and down, nodding thoughtfully.

 

 

Sparrow's pink tongue swiped along his lower lip, apparently without its owner's cognisance, and Jack's prick swelled warmly at the notion of reciprocity.

 

 

"They must be asleep," he murmured, taking Sparrow's arm as if to help him across the narrow street. "Will and Martingale, I mean. No lights."

 

 

"You'd best be _quiet_ , then," said Sparrow, with a smouldering inciteful glance. "Wouldn't want to wake 'em, would we?"

 

 

Jack beamed at Mistress Guilpin, and took the stairs two at a time, eager to be private with Sparrow: but his ascent was halted by a ghastly apparition on the landing, swaying and bloody-mouthed and palely naked, save for a shirt worn apron-fashion around its waist.

 

 

"Jamie?" said Jack. "What the fuck?"

 

 

Jamie Martingale it was, wide-eyed and reeling. Jamie Martingale who said, his voice all cracked and hoarse, "She took him, Jack. Captain. She took him, and I couldn't stop 'em."

 

 

They took Martingale into their room, where Jack crouched before the fire and coaxed life from it as Sparrow coaxed information from Martingale.

 

 

"We were abed," said Jamie: Jack could _hear_ him blushing. "An' she came and banged on the door, an' I _told_ her to wait! But she din't."

 

 

"Who's this 'she'?" enquired Sparrow, surprisingly gently.

 

 

"Mistress Eliza," said Martingale miserably. "And her man, he hit me." He dabbed at his bleeding mouth. "Knocked me cold, he did."

 

 

"Did she say anything? Tell where she was taking him?" asked Sparrow, just as Jack said, "Was that Doctor with her?"

 

 

"I don't know," said Martingale, shaking his head. Sparrow rummaged under the dirty, unmade bed and handed him a half-empty bottle of rum. One restorative draught later, Martingale said, "She din't say a word. Just screamed at me -- well, mebbe at Will, we was naked, see -- an' ..." He shook his head. "What'll she do with him, Captain?"

 

 

"She'll _emancipate_ him," said Sparrow grimly.

 

 

"She'll ... Oh fuck! Poor Will!" breathed Martingale, aghast.

 

 

"No, he only means she'll set Will _free_ ," Jack said quickly. "It's what people do to slaves: that's all it is, Jamie, nothing to hurt him."

 

 

"Will's no slave!"

 

 

"So nothing'll change," said Jack. "Think, Jamie. Did she say anything, anything at all, about where she was taking him?"

 

 

Poor Martingale shook his head. Jack clenched his fists. He was not in the habit of threatening women, but if Mistress Eliza showed her face ...

 

 

"I'm having a thought," said Sparrow.

 

 

"Aye? What's that?"

 

 

"Mr Martingale, d'you remember when we were drinking in the Angel, that time, and you were laying out hand-bills for the show?"

 

 

Martingale swallowed hard at mention of the Show. He looked pensive for a long moment, while Sparrow stared intently at him as though trying to force the memory into his head.

 

 

"When was this?" said Jack. "I don't remember going to the Angel. Ain't that the coaching inn, up t'wards Clerkenwell?"

 

 

"Oh yes!" said Martingale, rallying. "When we was after --"

 

 

"We were out to find some decent _Rum_ , Mr Shaftoe," broke in Sparrow. "Come to think of it, you were otherwise engaged. What could it've been? Ah yes: exercising your Paternal Duties in Limehouse, you were."

 

 

Jack groaned at the memory. Oh, some of the Paternal Duties (like the lesson about just how finely to grind gunpowder before it became too chancy for use) had been most entertaining: but his abiding memory of that day was Bob's sanctimonious disappointment.

 

 

Martingale was looking askance at him. P'rhaps Jack'd forgotten to mention his boys. "I've two lads," he said gruffly. "Their ma's dead, and their auntie's raising 'em, over in Limehouse with brother Bob: that's Clodagh, who was here yesterday -- though come to think of it, you wouldn't've seen her."

 

 

Neither Martingale nor Sparrow seemed especially interested in this precis of his familial encumbrances. Indeed, he'd scarcely stopped speaking before Martingale piped up, "Aye, Captain: I do remember that hand-bill now."

 

 

"What hand-bill?" said Jack testily.

 

 

"What was it, Mr Martingale? A lady, lately enslaved in Barbary, and come to London to tell her sorry tale? Something along those lines," said Sparrow.

 

 

"Mistress Eliza?" said Martingale.

 

 

"Could be, could be."

 

 

"Heaven forfend there should be _two_ of the creatures," said Jack. "But what's that to do with poor Will?"

 

 

"Only," said Sparrow, with an ivory-and-gold grin, "that the hand-bill gave her _direction_ , Jack, just as ours told where the Show was to be seen."

 

 

"I'll see if I have it still, Captain," said Martingale, leaping up, all fired with the prospect of constructive action.

 

 

"And put some clothes on!" Jack called after him.

 

 

"Poor bloody Will," said Sparrow, leaning over to swipe the rum-bottle from where Martingale'd left it, and taking a healthy draught. "Last thing he needs, I should think, in his state."

 

 

"Interfering bitch," said Jack. "Though ... d'you think she caught 'em at it?"

 

 

Sparrow grinned. "Maybe Will was feeling somewhat recovered."

 

 

" _I'm_ feeling quite healthy," remarked Jack, settling himself more comfortably so that the cloth of his breeches was taut across his (still half-hard) cock.

 

 

"You, Mr Shaftoe, are -- how did that playwright put it? -- both Cure and Antidote," murmured Sparrow, rocking forward onto his knees: and Jack would gladly have risen to meet him, but here was Martingale again, damn the lad, clothed and decent, flourishing a creased hand-bill.

 

 

Jack snatched it from him, as much to distract from his own state as for any interest in it. "Not as fine-printed as ours," he said.

 

 

Sparrow took it from him. "Aye, but what does it _say_? 'A Lady of Quality' ... a yellow-haired she-devil ... 'long enslav'd by Barbary Rovers' ... 'til they sickened of her Spirit, no doubt ... 'speak most eloquently on the subject' an' never stop: aha! 'Daily at 3 of the clock, at the sign of the Doctor's Head on Coleman Street.' Where's Coleman Street, Jack?"

 

 

"Up past the Exchange, and the Bank," said Jack. "Shall we pay a call upon the lady, then?"

 

 

He and Sparrow hadn't yet taken off their coats, and Martingale donned his hastily: pausing only to collect Jack's pistol and their ready money (no use in offering Temptation to Mistress Guilpin) they clattered downstairs.

 

 

"Sir! Captain Sparrow!" came a reedy cry. Jack and Sparrow checked, though Martingale took no notice. The pot-boy was holding something out to Sparrow.

 

 

"A letter?" said Sparrow blankly. "Thanks, lad." He tossed the boy a shilling -- far in excess of any letter's value, thought Jack -- and took the folded paper: broke it open, scanned the contents, and directed a frown at Jack.

 

 

"Bad news?" enquired Jack. Martingale, at the open door, was fidgetingly eager to be gone.

 

 

"No, but ... Jack, c'n you take Jamie to the Doctor's Head?" said Sparrow. "I've an errand to run."

 

 

"Says who?" demanded Jack, suspiciously.

 

 

"It's from Enoch," said Sparrow. "Some fellow he wants me to meet. I'll be back before you, I'm sure."

 

 

"All right," said Jack, grudgingly. "How's Enoch, then?"

 

 

"Oh, you know," said Sparrow, waving a hand. "Jamie?"

 

 

Martingale came sullenly back inside.

 

 

"I shan't come with you," said Sparrow. "Mr Shaftoe'll be enough to terrify the wench. And Jamie?"

 

 

"Aye, Captain?"

 

 

"If Will ... His right name's Weihahi, Jamie: 'member, Djagdao told it to us, yesterday."

 

 

"I know it," said Jamie, and now there was something fierce under the sulkiness. "I know it, Captain: did you think I'd never ask, and him an' me as close as, as ..."

 

 

"C'mon, mate," said Jack hastily, before Martingale could commit the cardinal sin of striking his captain. "Jack, we'll be back betimes: Jamie, let's mount a rescue for our friend."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Once they'd gone, Jack Sparrow smoothed out the note and read it again. "If ye com to th Angle Inn, ye wil finde ther a Intrested Partie awaiting yr Propposition." There was no signature, but Jack knew who'd sent it, all right. He chuckled to himself. Nevison'd taken the bait, just as Jack'd hoped.

 

 

"Will there be a reply?" said the pot-boy.

 

 

"What? No, no reply," said Jack. "If anyone comes looking for us, we'll be back in an hour or two, all right?" And he tossed the lad another coin.

 

 

The better part of Valour, in this case, was almost certainly to wait for Martingale's return, rather than turn up alone to such a very ... nebulous appointment. But Jack Shaftoe'd be with Martingale, and so -- with any luck -- would Will, in need of nurture and loving care. Poor bloody Will. And Djagdao and Burton were probably back on board the _Black Pearl_ by now, lucky sods. Bootstrap? Ah, but it'd take a while (and more money than Jack felt Kitty deserved) to pry him from the bosom of his family: and Jack was keen to resolve this business as swiftly as might be.

 

 

It was dark outside, and only a fool braved London's streets by night, alone, when he'd a pocket-ful of money. Jack bade the boy step out and fetch him a chair -- he'd seen a rank further up the street -- and waited impatiently (though not too impatiently to accept the offer of a cup of mulled ale) for him to return.

 

 

Travel by sedan-chair was marginally more comfortable than by stage-coach, but Jack did not care for the swaying, pitching motion, and there was little enough to see in the gloomy, Vagabond-infested streets. How could Jack Shaftoe be so fond of this benighted city? Jack was glad when the chair was set down and one of the bearers informed him gruffly that they'd arrived.

 

 

"Pray wait for me," said Jack imperiously, quelling argument and confirming his reservation with a gold sovereign. He paused on the threshold of the Angel, peering into the dark interior, but there was no sign of any thuggish army. Indeed, the place was quiet, and almost empty. There was that fellow at the bar, what's-his-name, Richard, who'd been so very helpful before: Jack nodded and grinned at him, and tipped his hat. Couldn't hurt to be noticed, could it?

 

 

And there was that bastard Swift Nick Nevison, drinking alone in a corner near the back door. Handy for a quick escape, thought Jack: though handy, too, for a quick _entrance_ , as of that thuggish army whose absence was so suspicious.

 

 

On the other hand, perhaps Mr Nevison was more covetous than cautious.

 

 

Jack bought himself a mug of ale, and a tipple of brandy for Richard, and bade him keep an eye out for signs of trouble; which agreement cost him a crown.

 

 

"Mr Nevison!" he cried, approaching the man. "How delightful to see you again!"

 

 

Nevison looked up and scowled. "Where's Jack Shaftoe?" were his first words.

 

 

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Jack, seating himself without invitation. "Mr Shaftoe, as it happens, is visiting a lady friend." There, Jack Shaftoe, that's one you owe me: a small step t'wards the restoration of your reputation. "Unfortunately he'd gone out for the evening before your note arrived. He'll be desolated to have missed you."

 

 

"I see," said Nevison, peering at Jack. Was that the stare of someone who'd witnessed a man in flagrante delicto? Hard to tell. If there'd been any justice, the sight of Jack buried balls-deep in Shaftoe's glorious arse would've struck the fellow blind: but this was not the theatre, and Justice was in short supply.

 

 

"So, Mr Nevison," said Jack brightly, "I take it you received my missive, and learned of the various Reversals in our Fortunes since last we spoke?"

 

 

"Aye," said Nevison. "Robbed, was you?"

 

 

"Indeed: most uncommonly fortunate that you didn't fall prey to the same wicked thief," said Jack amiably. "But perhaps you'd continued your journey by then, eh?"

 

 

"Missed your Marvels from the New World, I did," said Nevison.

 

 

"Easily missed," said Jack. "But I have to say we've done very nicely by them, in London-Town. I'm surprised you haven't heard of us. After all, Rumour's faster than any man alive, Mr Nevison: even Swift Nick."

 

 

"Ain't that the truth?" said Nevison, smirking.

 

 

"And I understand you've been giving Rumour some _assistance_ ," said Jack, leaning forward and dropping his good humour like a mask: nay, like a gauntlet.

 

 

"Have to sing for my supper, don't I?" said Nevison. "'Course, if you was to make it worth my while -- give me some new Scheme to talk about, like this New World Marvel of yourn -- why, then I'd prob'ly forget any hackneyed old tales I'd been recounting."

 

 

"I must congratulate you, Mr Nevison," said Jack thinly, "on your truly heroic nerve. Now, the proposition _I_ was going to make was more along the lines of _you_ keep quiet, and so shall _I_. Otherwise, I'm very much afraid that I'll be staying in London-Town just long enough to see you swing at, what-d'ye-call-it, Tyburn. For I've proof incontrovertible that you're guilty of crimes against the State, the King, and God."


	31. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Thirty-One

  


It was obvious even to Jamie—to whom all of this city was an astonishment, no one part of it any less of a wonder and a revelation than any other—that they were now in a very different part of London. A part inhabited by people of means. Oh, the dark streets still ran with muck, there were still beggars and paupers and evil smells; but all the beggars and paupers and muck were well illuminated, and (the latter excepted) were encouraged by watchmen to move on. The houses were taller, more guarded, presenting blank faces to the street; the well-off folk who inhabited them were nowhere to be seen, for whenever a door opened it was met by a chair or a carriage, and a dark shape flitted from one to the other without having to brave the horrors of the publick thoroughfare.

Jack Shaftoe strode on purposefully, all long-legged and sure, and Jamie was glad to have him at his side. If anyone (apart from the Captain) could get Will back, it was Shaftoe.

“Here,” said Jack Shaftoe, gesturing upwards; a sign hung above the door, a well-executed black-on-white profile of a gentleman, nothing like the garish signs that Jamie was learning to decipher along Fenchurch Street.

The brass knocker was highly polished, and echoed loudly down the quiet street. Jamie shuffled, and straightened his coat, pulling himself up to his full height as the door opened to reveal a dark-skinned woman, dressed in severe black.

Jack Shaftoe held up the handbill. “Mistress, we’re looking for—”

“No talk tonight, sirs,” said the woman, in a heavily accented voice. “Mistress ‘Liza don’t talk tonight.”

“Thank goodness for that,” said Shaftoe jovially, and Jamie poked him irritably in the back. “That is,” said Shaftoe in more sober tones, “we’ve not come to hear the Talk; we’re here to call upon Mistress Eliza herself.”

“Mistress is busy.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment, in fact I suspect she’s _always_ busy; but could you please advise Mistress that Mr Jack Shaftoe and Mr James Martingale are, despite her busyness, seeking a brief audience?” Shaftoe grabbed Jamie’s arm, and pushed him forward to give the woman a better view of him. “An’ considering that it was Mistress Eliza and that great ape of hers that did _this_ ”—he pointed to the side of Jamie’s face, where a dull throb had set up residence, and doubtless an impressive bruise too—“I think she owes us that, don’t you?”

The woman bit her lip. “You the ones—” she said, and stepped back, away, staring wide-eyed at Jamie as though he were a dangerous animal. “Wait,” and the door closed.

When it opened again, Eliza stood in the doorway, backed by the bulk of Moggs. She was pale and severe in an embroidered ivory mantua over an equally colourless, but finely made, corset and petticoat; a tiny little thing, but oddly fearsome for all that. She stared impassively at the two of them for a long minute before finally saying, “You’ve quite an admirable nerve, I must say.”

“ _We’ve_ got a nerve?” said Shaftoe. “We ain’t the ones who burst into a dwelling uninvited and kidnapped a fellow, and beat another into unconsciousness. Which is more than I can say for you. And I think the magistrates’d be more than a little interested in your doings today.”

Muscles moved at the side of Eliza’s jaw. “We were hardly unprovoked. I’ve never seen such savagery as I saw this afternoon, Mr Shaftoe, and I say this as a woman who was captured by Corsairs and spent years in enforced slavery.”

Jamie flushed and looked down. But Shaftoe sighed and said, placatingly, “If you will insist upon entry unannounced into another’s bedchamber, you might reasonably acknowledge at least a _possibility_ of seeing ‘em in a state of, er, unreadiness.”

“Unreadiness?” Eliza echoed, and flicked a glance out into the darkness, where a watchman’s footsteps and light approached. “That doesn’t even begin to describe what we saw. As _you_ well know,” she said to Jamie.

“Please,” Jamie said. “Please, you didn’t let me explain. And I have to see him. Is he here? Is he alright? Please!” And he took a step forward; Moggs’ hand was on his shoulder instantly, stopping him.

Eliza gave him a hard look. “I shouldn’t even let you across this threshold,” she said. “And I’d not; but for the fact that he’s been asking for you. So I shall let you enter, and I shall let you ‘explain’, for it should be entertaining if naught else. But one foot wrong— _one foot_ , you hear me?—and Moggs here will do his worst, and I’ll not stop him.”

In the parlour it was warm and clean, and bright with firelight and lamps. Jamie had never been in such a room, with so many books. There was no sign of Will.

“Sit,” said Eliza, perching imperiously on the edge of a high-backed chair and indicating another some distance from herself for Jamie. “And then, pray, enlighten me with your _explanation_.”

Jamie bit his lip and wondered just where to begin; Jack Shaftoe, standing by the fireplace, started for him. “Come now,” he said. “Jamie here’s been nursing Will, ain’t that plain?”

“Very few nursemaids of my experience,” said Eliza, “feel the need to carry out their duties _naked_.”

“Two fellows,” shrugged Shaftoe, “late of the Caribbean, where it’s warm; used to shipboard conditions. That’s all.”

Jamie was grateful for Shaftoe’s supportive (albeit unconvincing) attempts at intervention, but really wondering whether he shouldn’t perhaps have been a little more forthcoming with him about the actual state of affairs upon Eliza’s entry into the room.

“I,” he began, and silently cursed the flush he could feel burning up his face and neck. “Jack, we were bare because we’d been… but, well, when they arrived, Will was still naked because I was, well…” Would Shaftoe be angry, that Jamie’d stolen the Cure from his room? Jamie knew how much it was worth; and that didn’t mean he regretted it, not for a moment, but being called a thief, on top of everything else he was currently suspected of, would frankly be a bit much.

“What? Oh God, you weren’t were doing _that_ , were you?” groaned Shaftoe, clearly jumping to carnal conclusions; and some easily distracted and not-very-admirable part of Jamie’s mind couldn’t help wondering just exactly what it was that Shaftoe was picturing. Liked the thought that Jack Shaftoe’s handsome head was swirly with images of Jamie bared and misbehaving. Even if, strictly speaking, he wasn’t on the right track. This time.

“No, I wasn’t! Well, maybe a little, but no, not really—”

“What,” said Eliza sharply (she was really very collected, for a lady, Jamie had to admit) “do you mean, Mr Shaftoe, by ‘doing _that_ ’?”

“Well. I mean. Ahh. You’re clearly a lady of sophistication,” said Shaftoe uneasily. “And though it’s not a fit subject to bring up thus, in comp’ny, and I apologise unreservedly for doing so—well, you must’ve come across the concept of such, ah, practices, between, ah, two fellows.”

“I assure you that I am most familiar with a wide range of _practices_ ,” said the apparently unflusterable Eliza, “having been forced to prepare myself, while waiting in the hareem for my inevitable summons, with extensive research into Books of India.”

“Goodness. Really?” said Jack Shaftoe.

“But I have never— _never_ —come across any practice that involved weaponry, and infliction of wounds, and subcutaneous insertion of foreign objects, and yet was claimed to be consensual or, God forbid, pleasurable.”

“What d’you mean, subcu— _ohhhh_!” cried Shaftoe, light dawning. “Oh, Jamie, you bloody idiot, you were trying the Cure, weren’t you?”

“What?” demanded Eliza, finally flustered by the implication that Shaftoe knew exactly what Jamie and Will’d been up to. “The what?”

“Aye,” said Jamie, unapologetic. “Of course I bloody was. What would you do, eh? What _did_ you do, Jack, in the same position as me? I din’t do anything you din’t do first.”

“Dear God!” said Eliza, and then made an inarticulate squeaking sound as Jack Shaftoe started to wrestle his way out of his coat, and unbutton his waistcoat, and yank his shirt out of his breeches. “Dear _God!_ ” she cried again, and lurched to her feet. “What are you doing, man? Moggs!”

Quick as a flash, Shaftoe’s knife had leapt into his hand, and Moggs’ step forward turned into a stumble and a growl. “Don’t: just don’t,” snapped Shaftoe in a commanding tone, and the ferocity on his face would, Jamie thought, have stopped a small army in its tracks. “Just stand still a moment. And you, madam, just shut your trap and watch and listen and you might bloody learn something, instead of leaping to ugly and unbecoming conclusions.” One-handed, he bared a patch of skin low on his hip, where a pale scar could be seen. “Is this where Will’s wounded?” he demanded.

“And on the other side,” said Eliza, rather faintly, and Jamie had to confess to himself that Jack Shaftoe (blue eyes dark and abdomen taut with intensity, as he stood there demonstrating his scarred symmetricality) made him feel much the same way. Perhaps Will’s belly would look like that, one day: all smooth and golden again, delicate scars the only reminder of his pain and sickness.

“I wore wood there, for a week,” Shaftoe said brusquely. “By my own choice, and it cured me, madam, of the Great Pox. Mr Martingale here might be guilty of medicinal quackery, applying it to poor Will, but apart from that, and an excess of desperate optimism, he’s guilty of nothing. Oh, apart from the sodomy of course,” he added, “but can’t we treat that as a side-issue?”

“You were trying to cure him?” Eliza said, turning back to Jamie with a searching look. “Is that true?”

“Of course it is!” Jamie cried. “Don’t you see, I’d do anything to make him well! Anything! Din’t I ask for your doctor, and do just as he told me? Because Will’s _mine!_ ”

“Yours? He’s _yours?_ No human being belongs to another,” snapped Eliza, clenching her fists. “When will you people understand that—”

Jamie lurched to his feet and stamped with petulant anger. “That’s not what I mean! He’s not my possession, he’s not my slave, he’s my _love!_ ”

That shut her up, alright.

“And you can’t take him from me, can’t keep me from him, not now, not ever.” He glared over at Moggs. “You can hit me again, you can do whatever you want to me, and it won’t change anything. I’ll be knocking on your door or climbing up your drainpipe or breaking the locks on your windows, but _I will be with him_ , d’you understand?”

A silence fell over the room, echoingly quiet. At last, Eliza, pursing her lips, said, “You seem quite… adamant.”

“Yes.”

“Supposing I were to believe you, that you have only his best interests at heart.”

“I do, I—”

She carried on, holding up a hand to silence him. “If you have his best interests at heart, then you will see that I can care for him better here, with the help of the Doctor and Moggs and Susannah, than you can in that dirty little room all by yourself.”

“I don’t see that at all,” said Jamie. “You haven’t even let me see where he’s staying.”

Eliza stood. “Come, then. And if you see that he is in better circumstances here, you will agree to let him stay; and I will agree to let you visit him.”

“As often as I want?”

“As often as he wants.”

Jamie examined this proposal for loopholes and found none. “Alright,” he said. “Take me to him.”

*

Jack hung back in the doorway as Eliza let Jamie into Will’s sickroom. It was airy, warm, well-appointed, though swathed in a rather disturbing shade of red fabric, from curtains to bed-linen; Will was asleep in the midst of a large, sweet-smelling bed (just the sort of bed that Jamie’d wanted to treat him to, Jack thought sadly) but opened his eyes at the sound of Jamie’s voice, and the most relieved smile came over his poor blistery face. “Jamie! I knew you would come, I told them!”

Jamie was on his knees by the side of the bed, Will’s hand wrapped in both of his. “Are you alright? Have they—”

“But your face, you—”

“It’s fine, it don’t matter, but the Cure, does it—”

They talked over the top of one another, gabbling questions and half answers. Stepping back to give them a modicum of privacy, Jack said to Eliza, “It seems a good enough room, though I must say your taste in furnishings is rather, ah, vivid.”

“’Tis the recommendation of the Doctor, that the room is draped in scarlet, to draw out the infection,” she said, a trifle defensively.

Jack grinned. He could not imagine for a moment that Eliza put any faith in such clap-trap. “Right,” he said agreeably. “Of course. Yes. Red. An excellent cure-all.”

“At least it does not require the patient to be _stabbed_ , Mr Shaftoe.”

Damnation, he’d walked straight into that one. “Whatever you may think, Mistress, that boy’s got nothing but good intentions t’ward his friend.”

“I can see that, believe it or not,” she said waspishly. “But what would you’ve thought, in my place, sir? It really looked like the worst savagery.”

“Appearances can be very deceiving,” said Jack smoothly, as dark-skinned Susannah bobbed her head and passed them, carrying a supper tray to the invalid. “Take that young lady, f’r’example; why, you’d see the same sight on any New World plantation, run on slave labour.”

Eliza glared at him, narrow-eyed. “I know, I know,” he said, holding up a hand to pre-empt the lecture. “She’s employed, earning an honest living, you can spare me the explanation. Just saying. Appearances, eh?”

“True,” said Eliza, with a dangerous honey in her voice. “Such as the appearance of you and that foppish friend of yours, your Captain Sparrow. I don’t suppose I need to explain how _that_ looks to the casual observer, either; especially given the relationship between _these_ two.”

It was clear enough that she was expecting a reaction, expecting Jack to rise to the bait; and he did briefly consider attempting to defend his reputation. But perhaps the Imp was back (good, he’d missed the little bugger) and besides, Jack couldn’t think of anything he’d enjoy more, right now, than getting one over on this bloody woman.

So instead of rolling his eyes, or snorting in disbelief, or laughing dismissively at her foolishness, Jack just grinned. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “sometimes appearances are deceiving. An’ other times, madam, they are absolutely not.”

Two points of colour appeared high on Eliza’s face. “Oh?” was all she said.

“I’m sure further elaboration ain’t necessary,” said Jack. “What with you having read all those Books of India and all.” He patted Eliza on the shoulder, and revelled in her speechlessness. “Come on, Jamie,” he called. “What say we let Will get some sleep, an’ get back to our Captain, eh?”


	32. European Physick, Chapter Thirty-Two

  
  
Jack Sparrow was heartily sick of London, as busy as a Theatre with all its reversals and machinations and a supporting cast of criminals, females and imbeciles. He'd only just made it back, last night, ahead of Jamie Martingale and Jack Shaftoe: and then he'd had to pretend that he'd been sitting there alone in the gloom, waiting for them, fretting about poor Will and planning an elaborate revenge on the interfering Mistress Eliza.

"And how was Enoch's mate?" Jack Shaftoe had enquired, with a sly look that told Jack his little ruse hadn't been wholly convincing.

"Sadly uncooperative," said Jack. "I'm of the opinion that we'll hear nothing more from him."

Shaftoe had shown signs of further interest -- an enquiry regarding Enoch's friend's name, and another concerning the good Mr Root's present and future plans -- but Jack'd distracted him most thoroughly, and enjoyably, once Martingale'd been packed off to his lonely bed with a bottle of rum to keep him company.

So Jack stretched out now in their bed, only half-awake but keenly aware of Shaftoe's warmth next to him. Jack Shaftoe was tantalisingly fidgetsome this morning, his hand creeping over the curve of Jack's hip, his bony foot nudging at Jack's calf, his warm breath --

"Captain!" cried Martingale from the landing, hammering on the door. In an instant Jack was bolt upright, blood zinging through his veins as though he'd been called to battle. Beside him, Shaftoe writhed sleepily and grunted, "Wha'?"

"Fuck knows," said Jack, gritting his teeth and reaching for his shirt. "What is it, Mr Martingale?" he called.

But Martingale was talking to somebody, and did not heed his captain's words -- which, come to think of it, was very probably a capital offense, 'specially when he'd distracted his captain from the comforts and delights of Mr Jack Shaftoe.

No good news ever came at such an hour, thought Jack irritably. Perhaps poor Will'd taken a turn for the worse in that harridan's care. (Christ, Jamie had a generous heart, to let her take Will from him, never mind the superior facilities she'd availed herself of.) Or maybe Mr Nevison'd come to demand Jack Sparrow's Proof Incontrovertible, an errand somewhat complicated by its being a Proof Intangible. Or --

"Ain't that ... Bill?" murmured Shaftoe, pushing his fingers through his dishevelled hair.

Jack checked in the act of tugging on his breeches, cocking his head the better to hear the muffled conversation without. "Aye," he said gladly, snarl ebbing to a smile. "Aye, Mr Shaftoe: it is."

"What does _he_ want?"

"Let's go and find out," Jack suggested, tossing Shaftoe's shirt in the general direction of the bed. Its owner's eyes were still closed, but a hand came up to catch the crumpled linen.

Jack left him to it, not because the sight of Jack Shaftoe getting dressed was in any way offensive to him, but rather the contrary. If he stayed to watch, there was a fair chance that neither of them would quit the bedroom this side of noon: and Bill Turner surely wouldn't have come all this way for nothing.

"Jack!" Bootstrap greeted him as he emerged onto the landing. "You're looking ..."

He peered at his captain, and visibly modified whatever he'd been about to say.

"... better than poor Will," said Bill Turner. Then, to the small boy lurking on the stairs, gazing untrustingly at red-eyed Jamie Martingale, "Look, Will! 'Tis Captain Sparrow again!"

Biting back a very natural impulse to challenge Bill Turner's uninvited appearance, Jack smiled at the boy (whose eyes widened in fascination, or perhaps horror) and held out his hand.

"You're looking well, Bill," he said. It was true; a week of home cooking and connubial bliss had visibly filled out Bill's lean form, and put some colour in his face. And the boy, though distressingly skittish, seemed healthier and less prone to profanity than Jack Shaftoe's offspring. Jack shuddered at the thought of the Shaftoe brats.

"Mornin', Bootstrap," said Shaftoe, crowding onto the landing behind Jack -- perhaps pressing somewhat closer than the circumstances warranted, but Jack heroically refrained from complaint. The Turner whelp was staring, wide-eyed: so was its sire, with rather less warmth.

"Let's go downstairs," said Jack brightly, "and break our fast on Mistress Guilpin's finest mutton."

Behind him, as he hurried Turner senior and junior down the stairs, he could hear Shaftoe murmuring something to Martingale: whatever it was made Martingale chuckle, which was all to the good, even if Bootstrap did shoot a quelling glance back over his shoulder. Jack smirked, and did not bother to hide it. Oh, Bill might've been first mate and even, briefly and unnaturally, Jack's co-captain: but on land, Bootstrap Bill Turner'd no rank at all.

"So, Mr Turner," said Jack, once they were seated at a ramshackle table near the fire. "What brings you all the way to this den of inequity?"

"John Burton dropped by," said Bill, spearing a chunk of mutton with his knife. "With his, his _Indian friend_. On their way back to the _Pearl_ , they were, and John thought he'd best let me have the news."

"What news?" said Jack, wondering exactly what Burton'd seen fit to tell Bill.

"Why, that poor Will -- no, no, not you, William: _another_ Will, an Indian fellow like Mr Burton's friend -- had been struck down by sickness," said Bill. He put his arm round his son's shoulders, as though to protect him from any 'specially fearsome miasma, and gave Martingale, all pasty-faced and drawn, a narrow-eyed examination.

"I ain't got it, Mr Turner," said Martingale hoarsely. "Jus' Will."

"Anyway," resumed Bill, "he told us he was taking Djagdao back to the _Black Pearl_ , to keep him safe from contagion: an' I thought you might 'ppreciate some help, with Mr Burton gone and only Shaftoe and young Jamie with you."

Jack could feel Shaftoe bristling like an angry cat. He laid his hand, 'neath the table, on Shaftoe's thigh. O the animal vigour of the man! It sprang directly from Shaftoe's coursing blood to Jack's, like ... like an especially infectious, and yet utterly desirable, sickness.

Young Will nudged his daddy in the ribs, and whispered earnestly to him.

"Oh, aye," said Bill, laughing. "And Mr Djagdao told us all about the lions and bears at the Menagerie, he did, and Will here's on fire to see 'em."

"That's a father's duty," said Jack sagely, and winced. He kicked Shaftoe back. "No place for your lady wife, the Tower. And then you'll be heading back to Deptford, I s'pose?"

"I'd rather hoped," said Bill thinly, "that we might stay here a day or two. How's business going? And the Cure? And where _is_ Will? Abed?"

* * *

Jack Shaftoe clapped on the door of his brother's fine new lodging, and found himself instantly assailed by two small, fierce watchmen.

"C'n we do more fireworks?"

"What've you brought us, then?"

"Now, boys," said Jack, undeniably heartened by their enthusiasm yet wishing they weren't quite so tactile about it. "I'm here to see Nuncle Bob, and your auntie: is she home?"

"Hello, Jack!" said Clodagh, opening the door and ushering him inside. "For shame, Daniel Shaftoe! Just you let your father into the house, before you start bothering him!" The smile she turned upon Jack was rather less fond. "So you've found time to drag yourself away from your fine company, then?"

"What?" said Jack. "I've been busy, I'll have you know: busy providing for these boys, as you've been only too keen to remind me is my Paternal Duty."

"Oh, so that's what you were about when I called on you a whole two days ago?" Clodagh spun on her heel and stalked back along the passageway.

Jack gave up on any hope of a Christian welcome, and followed Clodagh to the parlour, where a cheerful fire blazed.

"Nice of you to call, brother," said Bob, from his seat beside the fire. He stood up, favouring one leg. "What brings you to our humble abode, eh?"

Jack made a show of admiring the whitewashed walls, the merry fire, the glazed windows. "You've done well for yourself, Bob," he congratulated his brother.

"Aye, through hard work and application," said Bob. "And since you've bequeathed your _family_ to me --"

"Oh, come on," protested Jack. "Only the other day you were on at me for risking their precious necks!"

Bob opened his mouth to retort, but he did not speak. Jack could almost see the second thoughts blooming in his brother's brain, like mould after a heavy rainfall.

"Let's not argue it," said Bob, with only a very faint sigh. "Are you come to stay? The boys'll be glad of your company."

"'Fraid not," lied Jack. "We've had some trouble: our company's depleted by sickness, and our First Mate -- that's a nautickal term, Bob, and not some vile perversion as I can perceive you're assuming -- is come up from Deptford. Turner, his name is, Bill Turner: you'd get on like ..." _Like a house on fire_ , supplied the Imp: but Jack did not think his brother'd take kindly to such an incendiary metaphor. "Like peas in a pod," he finished, rather lamely.

"So what brings you here for such a _brief_ visit?" said Bob.

Jack'd been looking forward to this part all the way downriver. "Oh," he said diffidently, "I just thought you and Clodagh would appreciate ... this." And from his pockets he brought forth gold and silver: handfuls of it, agleam in the warm doubling of firelight and spring sunshine, glittering and clattering down onto the table.

Clodagh came hurrying in at the sound -- aye, she was a Partry, right enough -- and halted, eyes impossibly round, at the sight of Jack Shaftoe's Treasure-Trove.

"Pirate gold!" crowed Jimmy, shoving his father aside and reaching out a greedy hand.

Jack, who'd picked out the shiniest coins from their Cure-profits with just this reaction in mind, was much gratified by his son's cupidity. He waved Bob away from the small grabbing paws, and smiled indulgently as the twins squeaked and squabbled over a pale gilt sovereign.

"I brought it for them," he said, fixing his brother with a meaningful stare, "though I know you've already had consid'rable expense -- both of you -- in the rearing of 'em. There's a good twenty quid there: should keep 'em fed an' clothed for a month or two, eh?"

One of the many arts that Jack'd perfected was that of knowing when to quit. Still in possession of the moral high ground (and confidently expecting to lay claim to it for some time yet) he made his farewells, pleading urgent business in the City.

"Why don't you come up and see us again?" he said to Bob on the doorstep. The boys were inside, eagerly sorting coins. They'd make excellent forgers, with such an eye for detail. "I thought I might show 'em the Menagerie sometime."

"Feed 'em to the lions, knowing you," muttered Bob.

Jack beamed at him. "Only if they're 'specially good," he said. "Tomorrow, then?"

He set off west, t'wards Fenchurch Street, rehearsing the different ways in which he might announce this latest discharge of his Paternal Duties. A father's place, indeed! Serve Sparrow right if Jack made him take the tour with two small boys. And maybe Mr Turner's whelp could come along, an' all. (Jack had a hazy intimation that this might not be wise, but his Impish companion assured him that it would be Entertaining, which trumped wisdom any day.)

All the way to the corner of Narrow Street, the thought of his boys' gappy smiles and crowing laughter sustained him: then it was driven abruptly from his mind by the sight of a familiar face.

Though it was years since he'd roamed these streets, Jack remembered the maze of courts, gardens and hen-houses that made Limehouse such a richly varied playground. He cut through the yard of an inn, heaved himself -- no one seemed especially interested in his actions -- over the back wall of a timber-yard, and reached the mouth of the alley-cum-sewer just in time to shoot out a long arm and hook John Nevison by the collar as he passed by.

Nevison was fast, Jack'd give him that, but he wasn't a young man, and besides, Jack had righteous rage on his side for a change. He twisted Nevison's arm up behind him with a promising grinding noise, and relieved the highwayman of his pistol.

"Well, mate," growled Jack, keeping his voice rough and his accent coarse. "We meet again, eh?"

"Sh-Shaftoe? Jack Shaftoe?"

"The very same," said Jack. "Come lookin' for me, were you?" The thought of Nevison lurking so close to Bob's house -- so close to the gold that Jack'd just delivered (not to mention the sons he'd delivered it to) -- was a chilling one, and Jack tightened his hold on the man, shoving his face up against the rough filthy bricks.

"I was," said Nevison, with impressive coolness.

"Why's that, then?" said Jack. "Come to bring back what you took?"

"What? What're you on about, Jack Shaftoe?"

"Shhhh," said Jack, noting a flicker of movement at the mouth of the alleyway. He groped around -- Christ knew what the man'd think -- until he could slide Nevison's dagger out of its sheath: let the light glint off it, a warning and a threat to any observer. "You stole from us," he hissed against Nevison's ear, trying to ignore the stink of unwashed skin.

"I did-- ow!"

"Stole from us," said Jack, low and nasty, "an' spread vicious tales. You filthy little toad."

"Oh, it's me that's filthy, is it?" sneered Nevison, bucking against Jack's hold. "I saw you, Shaftoe, you --"

Discretion be damned. Jack slammed the highwayman's head against the wall, once, twice, thrice, 'til there was a dark smear of blood against the crumbling red brickwork. Hauled the man back -- he let out a howl that echoed like an alley-cat's from the high narrow walls -- and spun him 'round. Nevison looked scared: mad as hell, but afraid, too, and Jack was certain that his own expression was most 'xtremely fearsome. All his rage at that initial robbery, with all his squirming embarrassment at the thought of what this man'd seen, and all his confus'd anger at the whole business of sodomy -- what Jack Sparrow'd made of him, and what he'd willingly embraced, and _why_ he should feel 'shamed of it -- came rushing, flooding out of him: and Jack suddenly bethought him of a long-ago tropical night, of holding the late Don Esteban de Espinosa before him at knifepoint and threatening _him_. For Jack's blood was up, his blood and his prick, and the conflicting desires of fighting and fucking made him dizzy.

He dropped the knife, drew back his fist and knocked Nevison flying with a vicious right hook. Laid him out a good five feet from Jack, moaning and struggling to rise from the mud and shit of the alleyway. There was blood all over his face, where he had become intimately acquainted with the bricks: he was clutching his wrist and gasping for breath through a bubbling mess of blood and snot.

Jack pocketed Swift Nick's pistol, and scooped up the knife: glanced over his shoulder at the mouth of the alley, but if anyone'd been watching they'd made themselves scarce.

"Start running, mate," he advised his erstwhile friend. "Let's see if you're swift enough to outrun _me_."


	33. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Thirty-Three

  


“For God’s sake, boy, will you just put it in your mouth!”

Bill, used to being more or less instantly obeyed (and having useful persuasion tools, such as keel-hauling and marooning, to back him up in the unlikely event of failure to comply) was clearly finding the recalcitrance of a small boy a very frustrating thing. William half-heartedly dunked his bread in his stew, though it was already sodden to the point of disintegration, and without further acknowledgement of his pater’s request turned back to Jack.

“And when the giant squid pulled you down below the reef, what was it like? Were you awf’ly sure you were going to die, Captain Sparrow?”

His eyes were wide and he was biting his lip. The entire afternoon had followed this pattern, Bill trying gamely to discipline and edify his boy and the boy remaining stubbornly fixated upon Jack, who—though he appreciated the child’s good taste and couldn’t deny that there was a certain satisfaction to be gained from his hero-worship—had frankly had enough of it. It was bloody hard work, dodging round all these questions and coming up with stories that didn’t impinge upon Bill’s rather sizeable list of Forbidden Conversational Topics, and yet were suitably packed with drama, danger, and derring-do.

“I was indeed utterly certain that death was imminent,” Jack agreed. “My life, William, flashed before my eyes; which was very entertaining, and would’ve been rather enjoyable, but for the burning pain in my lungs and the agony of squidly strangulation, both of which were loudly heralding my imminent demise.”

Will’s untouched bread broke in half and plopped into his cold and congealing supper. Bill growled and confiscated bowl and bread alike; Will did not protest, merely prompting Jack with an “And then…?”

“And then, why, by a miracle I felt a warm human hand upon my arm, and it was—”

In a piece of impeccable timing the door was flung open, and in swirled Jack Shaftoe, accompanied by a blast of frigid air. Jack made no attempt to hold back the beam of delight that surged up from the very core of his being: “—why, it was Mr Jack Shaftoe!” he cried, indicating that fine fellow with a dramatickal wave of his arm.

“Was? Still is, as far as I’m aware,” said Shaftoe, tossing his hat on the bed and giving Jack a warm smile that intimated he’d gladly give him far more, were it not for the present company. “Food!” he said. “Any left for me?”

“Will ain’t going to finish his,” said Jack, proffering the bowl and a spoon, and Shaftoe sat himself down beside Jack and made excessively short work of it, cold and unappetising though it was.

“How’s t’other Will? Jamie back yet?”

Jack shook his head. He felt bad about it; should go and visit Will. Yes. Tomorrow. Definitely.

“Naught we can do to help, anyway,” said Shaftoe a trifle sadly, and then perked up and cried, “Haw, you’ll never bloody guess who I happened upon!”

Jack noted a certain redness around Shaftoe’s knuckles, a grazed appearance, that could not be put down merely to cold. And, having remarked that, he further diagnosed a certain wild-eyed look that he knew rather well; a look that could be reliably brought on in the bedchamber, but (given the knuckle situation) was more likely in this case to be the result of less amorous physical pursuits.

“Someone who wishes you hadn’t happened upon them?” Jack hazarded. “Someone who’s bloodier for the experience?”

“Only John fucking Nevison!” Shaftoe pulled a pistol out of his coat pocket and tossed it on the rug. “Here, we should be able to flog that for something; there are plenty of coves who’d pay for the dubious honour of owning Swift Nick’s pistol.”

“Don’t you want it?” said Will Turner. He reached out inquisitively, but Bill beat him to it and removed it from harm’s way.

“I’ve better arms than that,” said Shaftoe, grinning at Jack. “Far better.”

Jack smiled back, and tried madly to ascertain from Shaftoe’s expression just how much Swift Nick might’ve given away. “Goodness,” he said blandly. “I wonder what Nevison was doing in these parts?”

“No idea,” said Shaftoe with a shrug, casual and disinterested enough to reassure Jack that poor bloody Nevison hadn’t had the chance to drop him in it. “But I can tell you what he’s doing now. Bleeding. Haha! Is that rum?”

“Aye, here you go.”

“Who’s Nevison?” Will asked, tapping politely on Shaftoe’s knee.

A pause, filled with glugging sounds: then, “A terrible fellow,” said Shaftoe righteously, “who got his comeuppance.”

“And did you recover any of our monies?” Bill wanted to know, and Shaftoe looked most bemused; Jack suspected that he’d been far more interested in Revenge than Compensation, and more focussed upon Nevison’s verbal sins than his manual.

Jack couldn’t care about that, anyway. Not with Shaftoe back at last, and all fizzy with bloodlust. “Well, William Junior,” he said cheerily, “ain’t it about time you was abed?” (They’d spent enough time today preparing the bloody thing, Bill insisting on burning poor Will’s sheets and finding new ones, and Mistress Guilpin less than impressed at their pyromania and requiring a deal of financial pacification.)

The child didn’t argue. “Aye, Captain,” he said solemnly, and held out his hand first to Jack, and then Shaftoe, in polite farewell. Bill gave him a hug, and said he’d be along in a minute.

Jack smiled tightly. “Ahem… surely it’s about time _you_ was abed too, William Senior?”

Bill rolled his eyes up to the cracked ceiling. “Alright, alright. And if we’re not here when you ‘wake tomorrow, we’ll be at the Tower.”

“Oh!” said Shaftoe, mysteriously interested in Bill’s tedious child-minding plans. “No, wait, Bill—my brother and my boys are coming over tomorrow an’ all. Why don’t we, er, all go? I’m sure William and Danny and Jimmy would find one another most diverting.”

Jack buried his face in his hands. God, there were children _everywhere_. But Bill seemed quite charmed by the idea, giving Shaftoe a wide and friendly smile. “I sh’d like to meet ‘em, too, Jack,” he said.

“You would?” said Shaftoe, suspicious. Justifiably suspicious, if Jack’s recollections of his offspring were anything to go by.

“Of course! Alright, then. Tomorrow.”

Bill shepherded Will out the door, and then (just as Jack was starting to reach for Shaftoe) stuck his head back round and hissed, “And please, for the love of God, will you keep it down this evening?”

“Whatever d’you… oh. Yes. Right. Silent as the grave!” declared Jack, making Shaftoe chuff with laughter. And then at last the door closed, and there were no more Turners, large or small, and Jack Shaftoe was all his.

*

The very moment the door closed Sparrow pounced upon Jack, pushed him down onto his back, and knelt over him, an unconvincingly stern expression on his face. “Now then, Mr Shaftoe!”

“Now… what?” said Jack, happily confident that he knew _exactly_ what, and working the knot of Sparrow’s sash undone. But Sparrow batted his hands away, and said, “Now, I want the details of all your dreadful misdeeds! The horrid details, the ones not fit for juvenile consumption.”

“Misdeeds? Me? Don’t know what you’re on about. Haven’t done anything of the sort. Oh, except for beating the crap out of Swift Nick, but I told you about that already.”

“Not,” said Sparrow lasciviously, “with nearly enough specificity.”

“How very… bloodthirsty you are, Captain Sparrow.”

“S’just important, ain’t it, for a Captain to keep a close eye on his crew’s doings. An’… capabilities.”

A play was unfurling itself in Jack’s mind, blackly and gloriously lewd. He licked his lips, and twisted his hips up against Jack Sparrow. “I c’d show you,” he said. “But it was all over awful fast. I took him by surprise, see. From behind.”

Sparrow’s palm was pressing at Jack’s groin, his touch enough to fill Jack’s yard with eager blood. “Took him from behind? Did you really? P’rhaps you could show me… _slow_ ,” he muttered.

“P’rhaps I could,” Jack agreed, and got to his feet, hauling Sparrow up with him. He bade the pirate stand in the corner of the room, his back to Jack; then came and stood close behind him, and murmured in his ear, “I spotted him, an’ I came up quick, Jack, though now I do’t slow, for demonstration purposes. Took him thusly.” He took hold of Sparrow’s collar with one hand, and one of his wrists with the other, gently twisting Sparrow’s arm up behind his back. “S’prised him, I’ll tell you.”

“An’ what’d he do?”

“Squealed like a kicked puppy, the yellow-belly.”

“He didn’t try to distract you? Say, for example, by doing something like… this?” And Sparrow reached up to the hand on his collar, and pulled it slowly down his body, finally pressing Jack’s palm against the solidity in his breeches.

“Can’t say he did,” said Jack a little breathlessly, “but if he had, I’d prob’ly’ve snapped his neck.”

“As would be so richly deserved, for such presumption,” murmured Sparrow, flicking open buttons and guiding Jack’s hand down into warmth, over hot silky flesh. “An’ for spreading such terrible rumours. For calling you such names. For saying that you’d have aught to do wi’ another man’s privities. Which obviously ain’t you at all.”

“Oh, stow it,” said Jack, dizzy with his own hypocrisy and lust. He pushed Sparrow forward, up against the wall. “An’ then I smacked his head on the bricks. A time or three.”

“Mmm,” said Jack Sparrow, and he tilted his hips, pressing himself back into Jack’s groin. “I bet he liked this bit. ‘Cept for the head smacking and the bricks of course.”

“I don’t think it was quite as enjoyable as it would’ve been if it were you and I,” Jack opined, pushing hair aside and bestowing greedy kisses on Sparrow’s neck as he stroked the man’s yard.

“No? What would’ve happened if it were you and I?” Sparrow was craning into the kisses, pressing into Jack’s hand, writhing back against Jack.

“Well… I’d’ve let go your arm, for starters,” said Jack, doing so, and Sparrow murmured, “And I could’ve got free, then, Jack; but I might not’ve. Might just’ve said, _Why, Mr Shaftoe, whatever are you planning? Surely… not here, not in this awf’ly publick place._ ”

“And I,” said Jack, something hot flushing through him, “Oh, I might’ve said, _Shut up, Jack; you know what you want, and I’m going to give it to you, right here, right now._ ”

“You would? Mmmm, you would…in which case I think I’d definitely undo your breeches, Jack,” and reaching behind himself he did so, with a blind dexterity that Jack could only admire. He bit Sparrow’s neck, groaned, as long nimble fingers coaxed his yard free of his clothes and wrapped around it. Hot, bony, callused, fierce.

“And if it were you in that alley,” Jack muttered, “I’d’ve pulled up your coat, Jack, like this; and pushed down your breeches, like this, till I could feel, oh God, your gorgeous arse…”

“And there’d be footsteps,” Sparrow whispered, shivering a little, “and you’d hold very still, Jack, very silent and still—”

“—but I’d be too far gone, mate, too far to stop—”

“And you’d spit upon your hand, for you’d have naught else, there in that alley.”

Jack did it; spat hard, and then pushed his wet fingertips between Sparrow’s buttocks, the pirate standing as wide-legged as he could with breeches tangled about his thighs and canting his hips to give Jack access, and Jack, eyes closed, was right back in that alleyway, though pressing up against a squirming pirate in lieu of a bleeding highwayman—a quantum improvement—with his hand buried in forbidden heat, and his head giddy with forbidden lusts.

Sparrow groaned approval and pushed back against him. “You’d be quick, Jack,” he muttered, “quick an’ fierce, not knowing if anyone would come, if anyone would see; oh Christ, come on Jack, you’d be quick, you’d—ah!” A sudden exhalation as Jack removed his fingers, took hold of his cock and positioned himself there, right there, just—and then, with agonizing slowness, pressed forward, pressed up, pressed in, into sin and glory, and bit his lip hard at the sound that Sparrow made, the sudden _O please!_ that burst from his lips.

“Thought you wanted me to do this slow?”

“Slow’s always a good _theory_ ,” Jack Sparrow gasped. His hands were up against the wall, fingers splayed wide; Jack kept stroking his love’s delectable hardness with one hand, and pushed the other up under his shirt, feeling the tightness of the muscles of his belly, feeling the tremble and pulse of his reaction as Jack thrust up deep and quick. Just as he would if he were taking Sparrow in a filthy alley, a beautiful dirty secret, a wickedness that would not be denied. Oh God, it was all heat and wrongdoing and beauty; it was for knowledge of this that he’d beaten John Nevison, just knowledge, and yet—yet, it was the most glorious, vivid pleasure Jack’d ever known. Everything was contradiction.

If Jack’s head were full of imagination and philosophizing, Sparrow’s seemed to be entirely consumed by the former. “That’s what you’d do, Jack,” he muttered, quick and low. “You’d take me, you’d fuck me, you’d fuck me hard and fast and those footsteps could come back and you’d not stop, you’d turn and glare and fuck and fuck and fuck and oh Jack, shit, there, just there, do that again, again, again!”

“Shhhh,” begged Jack, half-laughing at the desperation in Sparrow’s voice and yet it was mirrored in his own hips, in the twist in his gut, in the harshness of his breath; and the firm muscles of Sparrow’s arse pressed and tensed against Jack’s skin as he slammed over and over into tight hot flesh, buried himself deep and deeper still, and in, and in, and in. Thighs quivering, blood surging, heart pounding.

Jack gasped and bit down on Sparrow’s shoulder to muffle the cry as he spent, wild and bright and perfect, and Sparrow threw his head back and groaned and twitched as Jack’s fingers, the wall, were splattered with his seed.

They leant against the wall for a long minute, breathing hard.

“You, Jack Shaftoe,” said Sparrow at last, “are an oddly delightful play-actor.”

“Ditto, I’m sure,” Jack said, feeling slightly shamefaced about his rather feral urges, now that they were past. “But, Jack?”

“Mmm?” Sparrow twisted round, till they were face to face, close as close, breeches round their knees; Jack leant his forearms on either side of that beautiful visage, framing it, trapping it.

“Our life, yours an’ mine, on the _Pearl_ : that’s play, and phant’sy, and… and life enough for me.”

Sparrow blinked, slow and honeyed as the smile that spread across his face. “You telling me you’ve had enough of this city, mate? You’re ready to go home?”

“We’ve made enough money, haven’t we? Ain’t got many Cures left to flog?”

“Only a handful. And one Indian to get well enough to travel.”

Jack was silent, reminded so unpleasantly of what was really tying them in place; and some horrid voice inside him could not help noting that recovery was a hell of a lot slower than… than non-recovery. He quashed the thought. “Aye,” he said, leaning in for a slow soft kiss. “Well enough. And then…”

“Then, Jack? Oh, then… back to my lady, back to the sun, back to freedom.”

The longing in his voice made Jack smile. “You keen on that idea, by any chance, Captain?”

“Only one thing in this world I’m keener on,” said Jack Sparrow softly, and kissed that thing sweet and deep.


	34. European Physick, Chapter Thirty-Four

  
  
"C'mon! Get up!"

Jack, from the warm comfort of the bed, queried the implicit urgency of Shaftoe's demand: but before he could follow up with the suggestion that, in order to equalise their states, Shaftoe could return to bed instead of coaxing Jack out of it, he'd been reminded that Bob was due any moment.

"And?" said Jack.

" _And_ I don't want to be found abed with, with ..."

"With a _decided oddity_?" said Jack, showing his teeth.

Shaftoe turned a hot look upon him. "With anyone so _inflammatory_ as you, Jack Sparrow," he said. "It ain't an argument I'll ever win, not with Bob: an' anyway, it's none of his business."

Jack forbore to mention that it was _no one_ 's business, save their own. "And what time's Bob due to grace us with his presence?" he enquired.

"Fuck knows," said Shaftoe. "Morning, he said. An' it's morning now."

"Aye, and will be for hours yet," said Jack, squinting at the opalescent light that spilled through the window. "What's the rush?"

"No rush," said Shaftoe, tying the lace of his shirt. "I just don't care to be caught abed by my brother: that's all."

"Maybe I'll have another hour's restful sleep," said Jack, stretching in such a way that the sheet slipped down to his waist. "You tired me most cruelly last night, Jack."

Shaftoe smirked. "I was provoked," he said. "An' you're doing it again. I --"

But there were voices out on the landing, and then a timid knock on the door, and a piping, "C'n we go to the Tower yet, Captain?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Not yet, mate," he called. "Have your father order breakfast: we'll be down in a minute." And to Shaftoe, hardly more than a whisper, "I'll have young Master Turner off to the _other_ bit of the Tower, if he doesn't acquire a better sense of timing too: and your spawn with him, if they so much as look at me wrong."

Shaftoe was grinning. He said, "You ain't on board your ship now, Captain Sparrow."

"Fortunately for the boys," grumbled Jack, "or they'd all be keelhauled. Character-building, it is. Might I trouble you for my breeches, Jack?"

Descending, they found Jamie Martingale regaling Bootstrap and his son with tales of Mistress Eliza's fine house. "An' there's books in all the rooms," he said, "an' costly perfumes burnt to sweeten the air, where my poor mate Will is. Oh, morning, Captain, Mr Shaftoe."

"Mr Martingale! I trust you bring good news?" said Jack. He sat down, and pulled out the chair next to him for Shaftoe: but Shaftoe was waving and calling out, and here -- here already! -- was his stolid, boring brother Bob, and those two tow-headed brats.

"Bob Shaftoe!" said Jack genially. "Clodagh not with you?"

"She had some errands to run," said Bob, disdaining Jack's transparent attempt to appear interested in a female. "Just me and the boys, I'm afraid."

"Delighted!" said Jack. "Pray join us."

Another chair was found for Bob, and the Shaftoe brats crowded onto the settle beside Will, who stared at them wide-eyed and wrinkled his nose. Jack Shaftoe smiled benevolently on them all, and made introductions.

"So, Mr Martingale," said Jack, under cover of this distraction. "Is it good news, or bad, that brings you here?"

"I'm not staying," said Martingale quickly. "I jus' came back to grab a bite, and ... He's no worse." But Martingale's red-rimmed eyes, and the yellow cast of his skin, told another story.

"I'll come and see him today," promised Jack. "Poor fellow: an' he did so very well, in the Show. I wish you'd been here to see it, boys," he added heartily. "Our Will, our Indian friend, played a Painted Savage, and so did Mr Burton's friend Djagdao, who I b'lieve you've met, Will Turner."

"And what part did you take, Captain Sparrow?" said Will brightly.

"Me?" said Jack. "I was merely the Chorus, the Narrator. 'Twas Mr Shaftoe here who played the _larger_ role."

"You'd be the best judge of that," said Bill, grinning.

Bob Shaftoe raised an eyebrow, but Jack was saved from the necessity of having to threaten his First Mate by the arrival of their breakfast: a platter of steaming pasties, a brew purporting to be coffee, and a jug of milk for the boys, which Jimmy (or possibly Danny: Jack really could not tell the two apart, nor did he care to learn the distinction) promptly spilt all over the table.

The scowling maid mopped up the milk as Jack Shaftoe regaled the company with details of his glorious, albeit brief, theatrickal career.

"An' the two of 'em were painted," he was saying, "with strange and fearsome gods and monsters, all teeth and claws and eyes.

Will Turner shivered delightedly, perhaps at Shaftoe's grimace. Danny (or Jimmy) sneered. "Who'd be scared of a load of old paint?" he said.

"I see you've spared them details of the _fairer_ sex," said Jack Shaftoe to his brother.

"Not all women are painted, Jack," said Bob mildly. "You, sir; Mr Turner, was it? You've a wife, I suppose." His gaze lingered, briefly and disbelievingly, on Bill's shirt. "I'd hoped my feckless brother'd bring back a fine woman to be mother to the boys: but seems he's squandered his heart on some doxy."

Bill coughed, and Jack slapped him on the back.

"Have you taken up with a new girl, then?" enquired the nearer Shaftoe brat. He had, Jack noticed, very little in the way of eyebrows.

"What about our mum?" cried the other.

Jack Shaftoe shot his brother a deadly look. "Nobody could replace your dear dead mama in my heart," he told his sons solemnly. "Now! Are you finished eating yet? Will here's dead keen to see the Menagerie."

"Father's friend Mr Burton told me about it," said Will Turner eagerly. "There's lions and bears and hawks and apes."

"Been there," said the lad without eyebrows. "It was rubbish."

"Quiet," said Shaftoe, cuffing the boy affectionately. "C'mon, lads: are you ready? Aye, and the rest of you -- no, Jamie, you get back to your Will, and say hello from me, eh?"

"Actually," said Jack faintly, "I feel a terrible headache coming on."

Bill opened his mouth to make some smart-arsed remark, but Jack caught his eye and the remark died aborning.

"Captain Sparrow!" said Shaftoe, a mocking twist to his mouth. "You mean you won't be accompanying us on our Expedition?"

"Business to attend," lied Jack. "Cures to sell: calls to pay. Go on, go and enjoy yourselves: I'll see you later, eh?"

"Aye," said Shaftoe, with a speaking look that surely stood for the quick (or slow) farewell caress that, these days, passed 'twixt the two of 'em at any parting.

The Shaftoe lads were squabbling over the remains of a meat pasty. Their father separated them, confiscated and ate the contended item, and swallowed half a cup of bitter coffee.

"See you later," he said to Jack and Martingale. "I'll bring you back something nice, eh?"

Jack nodded, and smiled, and tried to ignore Bob Shaftoe's piercing gaze. He really, really hoped, for once, that they'd forget about him and find something _else_ to talk about.

The reckoning paid, he took himself upstairs, to a bedchamber still muskily redolent of last night's play-acting. From the open window he watched the unwieldy party sally forth: three strapping men, and three small boys trailing after them. One of the blond ones was kicking the dark-haired one. Jack smiled with an indulgence that increased with every step of distance between himself and the Shaftoe boys. Perhaps, one day, they'd grow to be as fabulous as their father. Assuming they grew up at all: which seemed unlikely, the way they were going.

There was a knock on the door.

Jack stared at it as though his gaze might actually penetrate the wormholed wood. Nevison, all raw from Shaftoe's fists? (Jack's prick twitched.) Mother Williams' poor scrawny lad? Jamie Martingale, come to hold Jack to his promise of visiting the sick?

Only one way to find out.

"Yes?" he said to the dark-cloaked gentleman who stood on the landing, hat clasped respectfully in his hand.

"A message for Mr Jack Shaftoe," said the man. There was another fellow behind him, just at the head of the stairs, and something very shiny on the shoulder of _his_ cloak.

"Aye -- I mean yes," said Jack. "That's me, sir. Jack Shaftoe." And he tapped his chest, and gave a little bow.

* * *

"And Mr Burton told me," said Will importantly, "that all the lions are called after Kings."

" _Ev'ryone_ knows that," said Jimmy Shaftoe disdainfully, walking the designated arm's-length from young Will.

Jack rolled his eyes, and grinned at Bob. "Takes me back," he said. "'Member when we used to climb over --"

"I remember _visiting_ the Menagerie," said Bob, with a complicated sort of frown that Jack interpreted to mean that Dodging Admission Fees was yet another restricted subject. "I wonder if they've still got that great old wolf?"

"Mus' be dead by now," said Jack. "You ever been here, Boo-- er, Bill?"

"Boo-bill!" mocked Danny. Shaftoe swatted him.

"Never really been to London Town," confessed Bill, with a rueful smile. "Grew up down-river, in Leigh: didn't come to London til I was on my way back from Jamaica, that first voyage."

Jack looked at Bootstrap with something approaching pity. Imagine, growing up in the countryside! Jack had been there. It was full of trees, and inedible crops, and wild beasts.

"... and Mr Burton said you can get in without paying, if you take a dog or a cat to feed to the lions!" Will was telling the lads.

"Right," said Jimmy. "You go that way, Dan, an' I'll look up -- ow!"

Jack tightened his hands on the collars of Danny (to the left) and Jimmy (to the right). "Where d'you think you're off to?" he growled.

"Get a cat," said Jimmy indistinctly, wriggling. "There's loads hang 'round the market, 'long Eastcheap."

"'F we get one each," put in Danny, " _we_ won't have to pay. Only them," jerking his head at the Turners.

Jack knocked their heads together. "Excellent plan," he said affectionately, "but we're rich, boys: we'll pay."

"Don't see why," muttered Jimmy. Released, his head swivelled round like an owl's. Danny followed the direction of his gaze.

"We could give 'em _Will_ ," said Danny brightly.

Will put his fists up, scowling fearsomely. There were two bright round spots of colour in his cheeks, like fever. "I'd like to see you try," he said.

Jack looked helplessly at Bob, but Bob had folded his arms across his chest and was leaning back against the wall, grinning. By the time Jack and Bill had separated their respective sons, and imparted dire warnings regarding the inadvisability of playing up in public, a small crowd had gathered, eager for violence. Normally Jack would've been happy to oblige, but something in the set of Bill Turner's shoulders told him that this was a minority view. He shepherded his boys along the street. They were mutinously, enjoyably silent for the moment, but it surely wouldn't last.

By the time they reached the Lion Gate, Jimmy's ear was redly swollen from where Jack'd tugged him away from a stray dog that was foaming at the mouth: Danny was being frogmarched by his Nuncle Bob, one heavy hand firmly on his shoulder: and Will Turner was snuffling bloodily and shooting triumphant looks at the Shaftoe boys.

"No more fighting, right?" said Jack, not really expecting it to have any effect. He paid their admission fees -- glaring at Jimmy the moment he opened his mouth -- and led them through into the Moat, where desultory clumps of sight-seers were poking sticks through the bars, tossing stones and generally provoking the animals.

"Will there be a giant squid?" said Will Turner eagerly, hanging on his father's hand.

"A giant squid?" said Jack. The memories rushed back at him: that dark, freezing, drowning pit, the foul brush of the creature's rubbery flesh against him, the terrible constriction of that underwater passageway: the sure and certain knowledge that he'd die and never see Jack Sparrow again, never let him --

"Jack?" said Bob. "What's up?"

"Nothing," said Jack. "A giant squid, Will? I bloody well hope not!"

"What's a giant skid, then?" said Jimmy: and Danny, "Are you scared of it, are you?"

"'Squid', not 'skid," said Bill impatiently. "'Tis a fearsome monster, that nearly did for our Captain, and for your father too: but we slew it in the end."

"It nearly _et_ Captain Sparrow," said Will. "So there."

"That's nothing," said Jimmy hotly. "Our da had his finger bit off!"

"He never," said Will defiantly.

"Look!" crowed Danny, grabbing at Jack's hand. "Da, show 'im!"

Jack kept his hand very firmly in his pocket, despite the considerable strength of his two dear little sons. "It weren't bitten," he said. "Look, ain't that a camel?"

Will and his dad turned to look: Bob, sighing, stepped in front of Jack for the express purpose of scowling at him.

"Finger bitten off?" he said. "I don't recall you mentioning that, Jack. Lady-love, was it?"

Jack scowled back. "'Twasn't bitten," he said, aiming for nonchalance. "'Twas cut, by a mad Spanish bloke. As Jimmy and Danny well know, having learnt it in the same conversation where we discussed the ill-advisedness of telling you such a terrible and harrowing tale."

Jimmy and Danny cowered and looked sullen. Jack already knew them well enough that he did not find this convincing.

"Most consid'rate of you to spare me, Jack," said Bob, laughing. "But d'you know, I reckon I've seen worse, in battle."

"Right sight, he was," offered Bill, with a reminiscent smile. "Blood and soot all over him -- we had to burn down the house, getting him out -- and reeling around all over the place: but that was just the laudanum, eh, Jack?"

"That's right," said Jack through gritted teeth, entertaining a vivid phant'sy of shutting Bill up in one of these cages and leaving him to tell his Inappropriate Anecdote to the occupants. Maybe this mangy-looking lion over here: or, no, perhaps the ape, which was reaching through the bars to tug at some gallant's over-lavish collar.

"Laudanum, eh?" said Bob, pinch-mouthed. "I'm glad you went back for him," he said to Bill. "I s'pose he must be of some utility, on board ship."

"Valued member of the crew," said Bill brightly. "Captain Sparrow wouldn't think of leaving him."

Jack cast his eyes heavenwards, in the hope of a well-aimed lightning-bolt, or -- failing that -- some distraction: and for once, his prayer (well, demand) was answered. There was a shrill scream from somewhere behind them, near the mangy lion.

"Ain't that Will?" said Jack.

The bruises on Will Turner's face bespoke a spirited resistance, but the Shaftoe boys outnumbered and outweighed him (and, Jack thought privately, outwitted him as well). Jimmy was pressing Will up against the bars, twisting his wrist at an angle which made Jack wince, while Danny wielded a short-bladed knife with an enthusiasm that made up for its evident bluntness. There was blood on the ground, and the elderly lionness on the other side of the bars was taking a definite interest in proceedings.

Jack strode forward and hauled Danny off his prey, while Bob cuffed Jimmy away.

Bill knelt before his son, big hands gentle on the boy's red, puffy wrist. "Let me see, Will," he murmured. "Show me what they did."

Jack glanced over at the victim, but he appeared to have all his fingers still, though several of 'em were notably bloody. He transferred his attention to Danny.

"What d'you think you're at?"

"That's Auntie Clodagh's paring-knife," said Bob, snatching it out of his nephew's grasp. "Come on, boys: tell your father and me what you were about."

"It'd grow back," said Danny sulkily. "Teeth grow back when you lose 'em."

" _What'd_ grow back?" demanded Jack.

"His finger," muttered Danny.

"Has my finger grown back?" enquired Jack, holding up his maimed hand for them to see. "Well?"

The boys shook their heads.

"And why did you want to cut his finger off, anyway?" asked Bob sternly.

"For the bones," confessed Jimmy. "So the lion could eat it, and leave us the bones." And he pointed at the heaped remains in the corner of the cage.

"That was a wicked thing to do," said Bob sternly, glancing at where Bill Turner, with the help of a pretty young woman, was bandaging his son's hand. "You should be ashamed of yourselves."

"Aye," said Jack: and could not help but add, "and ill-planned besides. How were you proposing to get the bones back, eh?"


	35. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Thirty-Five

  


 

 

The twins had run ahead, leaving Jack in the unpleasant company of a righteously enraged Bill Turner and his son (who still, from time to time, drew great wavering breaths that somehow—despite bordering on sobbing—managed to imply that he was being extremely brave) and an appalled Bob. Jack watched as his demonic offspring reached the door of their lodgings, and began hammering upon it, as if quite oblivious to the Punishment that might await therein.

And await it did. Bob and Bill had both been very very clear on that matter: and, just in case Jack had somehow forgotten the last half-hour’s earbashing, Bob reminded him of his Disciplinary Duties yet again.

“They should get a right belting, Jack. Not some namby-pamby tap on the wrist. That was _savagery_.”

“When have I, Bob, ever been ‘namby-pamby’ about anything?” Jack wanted to know, scowling fearsomely to make it quite clear that he had great castigational plans in mind. And was not, at all, merely hoping to pull Jack Sparrow aside and get his opinion on the matter, and have a fucking good laugh about the fact that his sons had tried to relieve William Junior of several phalanges.

But Sparrow did not seem to be responding to the boys’ relentless door-pounding. Perhaps he really did have a headache? But that seemed highly improbable. Jack could spot an out-and-out ruse when he saw one. More likely he was out. Damn.

Fortunately, about half-way up the stairs and musing on his Captain’s habitual approach to retribution, Jack was seized with an inspiration. Very sternly, he bid all three children enter his room; to Bill and Bob, he muttered, “Leave this to me, gents; p’rhaps you’d be so kind as to wait out here?”

“Why—”

“ _Because_ ,” Jack interrupted firmly, “I am the _father_ of these little criminals, Bob. So I want you to let me deal with it. Don’t you go playing the white knight and coming in to rescue ‘em as soon as I start their punishment, neither.”

Bob remained skeptical, Jack could see, of this sudden acceptance of paternal responsibility. But really, this would be much more fun without those two bloody killjoys involved. So he held up a firm finger when his brother opened his mouth, and comported his features into an expression of great gravity; and Bob sighed, and said that he and Bill’d wait downstairs.

“Right,” Jack said, closing the door on the real adults and beckoning his sons away from the ashy fireplace, and William out of the far corner of the room. “All of you, over here. Sit.”

They watched him, warily, as they clambered onto chairs and sat around the table.

“Show us your hand,” he demanded of William, and the child did so, risking a narrow-eyed glare at his persecutors. Jack unwound the bandage; the cut was not deep, and not bleeding any more.

“See? It’s fine,” said Jimmy dismissively.

“You’re really missing the point here, Seamus. The point is not that you were _incompetent_ savages. The point is that you were savages in the first place. Now listen, and I’m going to tell you a story about life in the real world. The grown up world.”

He could not help but notice the look of scornful relief that his sons exchanged. Stories! Pah!

“On board the _Black Pearl_ ,” Jack said, “there was an incident like this one. A piece of savagery.”

“We know! ‘Twas when you lost your finger! That’s why we—”

“You do _not_ know,” snapped Jack, losing his patience and boxing an ear, “and you will kindly shut up. Thank you. Right. Savagery. One of our company hit another—Mr Stone hit Mr Martingale, who you met before, remember?”

“The girly one,” sneered the un-boxed twin, and then yelped as Jack corrected the distinction.

“He ain’t so girly,” he said, “since he took his knife and stabbed Mr Stone in the arm.”

Will Turner’s eyebrows knitted together in horrified consternation. The boys looked rather impressed.

“So,” said Jack, getting to the good bit and coming to stand round behind his boys and block any potential escape routes, “Captain Sparrow decided to trust in that old adage from the Good Book; an’ he called us together, and he said: _An eye for an eye_.”

And during the second of Mental Computation that a seven-year-old required to apply this generic wisdom to his specific situation, Jack whipped a knife from his belt and buried its blade in the tabletop, and (not without a certain degree of difficulty once they divined his intentions) crooked his elbows around the necks of each of his offspring, gripping them tightly against his ribs, and forced the right hand of one, and the left hand of the other, flat onto the tabletop.

“Jaysus fookin’ fook, you fookin’ bastard!”

“Ye can’t! Ye can’t! Ye can’t! Nuncle Bob! Nuncle Boooooob!”

“We’re all fine thanks, Nuncle Bob!” shouted Jack heartily. “Just fine!” And, more quietly, “William, will you be so kind as to take up that knife?”

Will pushed his chair back and stood up, the colour draining from his face. “What for?”

“An eye for an eye,” said Jack. “That’s what the Bible tells us, William. They tried to cut off your whole finger; so I think it’d be fairest if you took half a finger off each of ‘em, don’t you?”

“But—but—”

“Get on with it, I haven’t got all day, and Daniel, if you bite me again I swear I will break your neck.” Jack tightened his grip, and one of ‘em made a nasty choking sound, but the teeth retreated from his flesh and both boys seemed to go a little limper.

“Don’t do it, Will!” Danny gasped. “We was only fooling! We wouldn’t’ve!”

“D’you b’lieve that one, William?” Jack asked. Will stared up at him with huge brown eyes and slowly shook his head. And with both hands, he pulled the knife from the table.

“Mr Shaftoe,” he said solemnly, “I think it would be best if I did this quick. Could you please put their hands closer together, so’s I can do them both in one, you know, um, one, one—”

“Blow? Hack? Slice?” suggested helpful Jack, granting his request. The panicked squirming resumed, and he could feel two little bodies pounding with fear; he was rather proud, however, of the lack of sobbing.

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” Jimmy begged. “Will, don’t! Dad, we din’t mean it, we’re sorry, we’re sorry, ain’t we Danny?”

“Don’t cut our fingers off! If you cut our fingers off we’ll never forgive you, Will Turner, we’ll come and find you and cut off all yours, I swear!”

“No they won’t,” said Jack encouragingly. “I won’t tell ‘em where you live, William, promise. Come on, quickly. Speaking from experience, I have to say that I think the waiting’s the worst part.”

Will raised the knife, and bit his lip, and Jack watched him like a hunter, waiting for the downstroke, waiting, waiting to see if he was wrong, and if he’d need to save them; but Will, good child that he was, lost his bottle.

“Can’t they just say sorry, an’ mean it?” he said, in a low voice.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s enough,” Jack said regretfully.

“It’s enough for me,” said William, bringing up his chin and squaring his shoulders. “An’ I’m the one they did it to.”

Turners! Predictable as the moon. But you had to love ‘em for it, sometimes. Jack sighed, and relaxed his hold; the boys sprang away from him.

Well, that was the fun bit over with. Apologies were so tedious. He gave a brief summary of just how much Danny and Jimmy owed to Will and how bloody nicely he expected them to behave for what little remained of the afternoon, and then left them to it, collecting his knife (no sense tempting fate) and heading down to advise Bill and Bob that punishment had been fully administered.

In the common-room, somewhat to his surprise, he found them entertaining a lady. Well, Flora, anyway.

“Mr Shaftoe! There you are!” she cried as he entered, interrupting Bill in what appeared to be a disappointingly watered-down version of the day’s events, relying less on attempted amputations to provide Dramatick Climaxes than on zoological observations.

“Flora! Looking for me, were you, darling?” said Jack, with a told-you-so glance in Bob’s direction.

“Well, you or your friend Captain Sparrow. Ned came to see you this morning, an’ he said there weren’t anyone here at all! An’ that weren’t half a worry, Jack, since I’ve promised your Cure to a number of fine gents; so I came by, to see if everythin’s alright. And besides…” She blushed a little. “I really don’t feel like workin’ at the moment.”

“Then _you_ may not be working,” diagnosed Jack, “but the Cure certainly is. But no, Flora, everything’s fine. One of our mates is sick, though, and I ‘spect Captain Sparrow’s off visiting him. Said he would be. We’ve got half a dozen—no, wait, make that five—more Cures, if you should be wanting them. And then, my darling, that’s it, there ain’t no more; so make sure you pick the right fine gentlemen to give ‘em to, eh?”

“Ooh, I’ll have all—oh, ‘allo,” said Flora, peering round Jack’s shoulder at the doorway. She frowned, all concerned. “Are you alright there, lovey?”

Jack turned, and there stood Jamie Martingale. But he was clearly not alright at all. Pale and red-eyed, and trembling though he leaned against the doorframe for support; he looked at Jack, and blinked, and two silvery tears spilled down.

“Oh, Christ; Jamie?” Jack was at his side in two steps, his arm around the boy’s shoulders. Jamie looked at him, and his mouth twitched as though he had to say something, but it was something that could not be said.

“Jamie, did Will…? Is he…?”

Martingale wiped the back of his hand across his face, and in a barely audible shudder of a voice, he said, slowly and disbelievingly, “He died. He bled, an’ he, he… his skin, it just… He died. Oh, Jack. My Will died.”

*

They’d been so kind to him, all of them. Mr Turner, bringing him brandy; that girl, that Flora, who didn’t even know him, but’d stroked his hand and cried for his misery; Jack Shaftoe, solid and warm and taciturn with his own grief, but there, right there. Making him eat, making him tell the tale. Coaxing him to drink more brandy, and putting him to bed. _Sleep_ , Shaftoe’d said. _Oblivion, Jamie, s’what you need; sleep, mate._

But how could he sleep? Here in their bed, where he and Will’d lain all curled and warm, laughing about the cold, whispering about London and about their friends and about each other? Here in their bed where they’d touched and kissed and rolled and fucked so gloriously? It was impossible.

There were no more tears, now, though Jamie could feel them dried and tight on his skin, and his eyes were hot and gritty still. No tears. Just a fierce, burning, barren misery and guilt. If not for him, bringing poor Will here…

He tossed and turned for long hours; heard the others go to bed. Heard Jack Shaftoe close his door, finally, when the clocktower struck midnight; knew that the Captain hadn’t returned. It was the strangest thing. Shaftoe’d thought he might be with Jamie, but he hadn’t been. Had never come to see Will, to say goodbye. Not that Will would’ve known it, today… not that he even seemed to know Jamie, at the end. The horrible, bloody, wracked end.

Jamie rolled over on his back, and bit the meat of his thumb to stifle another dry sob. It was torture, pure and simple, to be here all alone in this bed with these thoughts. But right across the corridor, was not poor Jack Shaftoe tortured the same? At least Jamie knew what’d happened to Will, hideous though it was; but God alone knew where the Captain had wandered off to, or what might’ve befallen him there.

Jamie rubbed the heels of his hands into his sore eyes, and in a sudden decisive rush scrambled out of bed. He couldn’t stay there one more mortal minute. There was no rest or comfort or oblivion to be had there.

He did not knock on Shaftoe’s door; didn’t want to give any sign to Bill Turner, nor his son, of what he was doing. He knew, in some distant way, that it wasn’t a wise thing. But the aches in his breast, his belly, didn’t care.

Only a chink of dull moonlight came through the crack in the curtains; just enough to show the dark shape of Jack Shaftoe, sprawled on his back with a forearm over his eyes. Carefully, Jamie shut the door, and then tiptoed over to the bed, heart hammering, shivering in his breeches. He pulled back the covers, and climbed gently in.

“Jack? ‘Zat you?” Jack Shaftoe mumbled indistinctly as he rolled towards Jamie, throwing an arm over his shoulders, and the touch of warm skin on cold was so beautiful. So beautiful. Sleepily, slowly, he stroked down Jamie’s spine, pulling him closer.

“It’s me,” Jamie whispered, low. Not that he wanted to break that spell of Shaftoe’s affection; but could not take it, not when it was meant for another.

Shaftoe went still and stiff, and there was a glimmer in the dark as his eyes opened. “Jamie?” His voice was hoarse with sleep and confusion. “Jamie Martingale? What the fuck are you doing in my bed?”

He had not moved his arm.

“I can’t sleep,” Jamie whispered. “It’s bloody awful in there, all by myself. After… after today. I couldn’t stand it, Jack, I just needed someone, needed… An’ you’re here all alone too.”

“Yes.” The arm retracted. “Yes I am.”

Jamie bit his lip in the dark, and put out a tentative hand, finding Shaftoe’s wrist and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “He’ll be alright. Wherever he’s got to.”

“I reckon I know where he is, mate. Don’t worry about it,” Shaftoe said, though Jamie was quite certain that he was not heeding his own advice.

“Where?”

“Oh, he’s been dying to get back to the ship. Prob’ly couldn’t wait any more.”

This seemed phenomenally unlikely to Jamie. But to argue it would be cruel. “Aye. Prob’ly couldn’t wait.”

Silence.

“So… can I stay?”

More silence.

“Please?” Jamie said, and it came out far more desperate than he’d meant it to.

Shaftoe sighed, and made an uncertain noise, and sighed again; but in the end said, “Alright. I understand you. Some nights ain’t made for sleeping alone.”

“An’ it’s cold, too,” said Jamie, and he turned his back to Shaftoe as he wriggled closer, greedily seeking Jack Shaftoe’s warmth and strength, curling up against the heat of his bare chest.

And realised that it was his bare chest, and his bare thighs, and his bare… everything. Jack Shaftoe, oh God, Jack Shaftoe was _naked._

Jamie’s blood leapt and lurched. There. _There_ was oblivion, for no matter how short a time. There, in the muscle and sinew and heat and thrust of another body. Of _this_ other body, that Jamie’d watched and admired for so long. He shifted his hips backwards, and reached for Shaftoe’s arm, pulling it down across his own chest.

There was a catch in Shaftoe’s breathing. “Jamie… don’t—”

‘It’s cold,” said Jamie again; a feeble lie. For his whole body was thumpingly warm, from his audacity and the delicious hard heat of Jack Shaftoe’s body. He could feel Shaftoe’s pulse, there against his spine. Shaftoe’s thighs, pulled up tight behind Jamie’s. Shaftoe’s breath, irregular against the nape of Jamie’s neck. Shaftoe not moving; Shaftoe holding him.

Carefully and slowly, Jamie slid his palm up over the back of Shaftoe’s hand, where it lay against his collarbone. Entwined their fingers; and guided it (gently, don’t frighten him, don’t!) down his chest. Down over a nipple that sparked at the touch of Jack Shaftoe’s hot dry palm, and Jamie’s yard swelled pleasurably. He rocked his hips back, and there, oh there, was answering flesh, he was sure of it.

With his spare hand he unbuttoned himself, and quick as an eel pushed his breeches down far enough to press his bare buttocks against Jack Shaftoe’s groin.

“Oh Christ Almighty! Jamie…!” It was a shocked growl, an angry refusal; but underneath that, oh underneath, Jamie was sure he could hear a plea. He twisted round till they were face to face, and when Shaftoe went to pull his arm away he caught it, held it there against his waist. Wished to God he could see Shaftoe’s face; but he would have to read him in other ways. He stroked his palm down Shaftoe’s ribs, over his belly, tense and tight; ran a fingertip round his navel.

“Jamie, stop it. You ain’t thinking straight.” But there was a catch in Shaftoe’s voice, and he hadn’t pushed Jamie away (well, not so hard that Jamie couldn’t fight back) and the feel of his skin, the rich yeasty smell of him, the heat radiating out from him, were all too much to resist. They were comfort, they were forgetfulness; they were the only thing strong enough to push out those images of blood and pus and empty eyes, and Jamie needed them, needed them like air.

So he did not stop it. He kicked off his breeches. He put a hand to Jack Shaftoe’s hip, pushing him over on his back; he put his mouth to Shaftoe’s chest. He pulled the blankets up over his head, and began to kiss his way down into the warm, musky dark where Oblivion lay.


	36. European Physick, Chapter Thirty-Six

  
  
Somewhere in Jack Shaftoe's bright sparking mind, as counterpoint and harmony to the Imp's enthusiastic endorsement, was the knowledge that this -- 'this' being comprised of, but not limited to, Jamie Martingale's hot mouth processing busily down Jack's chest, Jamie Martingale's hot prick pressing fervently against Jack's thigh; _this_ \-- was Sin indeed: sin enough to damn him and send him live to Hell. What other explanation could there be for how very, very good it felt?

"Jamie," some part of him protested, scarcely louder than a whisper lest it be heard by ... by anyone. "Jamie, stop!"

But Jamie Martingale did not seem inclined to stop: and Jack's own corpus, each thrumming nerve and each glowing drop of blood in his body, was rushing headlong -- prick-long -- into this delicious misbehaviour. The Imp hallelujah'd and carolled and gloried, and Jack's spine arched to present more of his skin to Jamie's ministrations, and _where the fuck was Jack Sparrow what the fuck was he doing this'd show him this'd --_

Jack twisted the fingers of his right hand through Martingale's long black hair ( _silkysilky ain't it Jack? smooth and pretty and wantin' it he is! an' his skin's all silky inside an' out an' in!_ ) and yanked at it 'til Martingale's mouth, retreating, left his skin cold. He stuck his head under the covers, down into the warm musky dark that smelt, still, of himself and Sparrow.

_Ain't no one'd ever know,_ baited the Imp.

Jack would not listen. He raised a fence of _**I'd** know_ s, and turned his resistance outward.

"Stop it, mate. Stop it! What if ... what if Jack, what if Jack Sparrow came back, eh? What'd he think, to find us so?"

Martingale made a horrid noise, halfway between a bitter laugh and a sob. "Fat chance," came, muffled, from the vicinity of Jack's navel. "He ain't here. He's run an' left us."

This was too horridly close to Jack's own fears to be ignored.

"He fucking hasn't! An', Jamie, this ain't going to fix anything. This ain't going to bring Will back. I shan't ... I don't want it."

Martingale did not say anything, but his wicked hand wrapped itself 'round Jack's prick, drawing his attention (as though such a reminder were needed) to the tumescent state of that organ. Jack's senses reeled: he couldn't help but push, just slightly, into that delicious firm touch.

_Ain't no one'd ever know._

A healthful rage swept through Jack's veins, displacing less admissable sensations. He'd not be mocked by this ... this stripling, this wanton, this _not-Sparrow_ ... this drunken mazey-headed intruder. So what if his corpus had ideas of its own? So what if the Imp's wicked whisperings had encouraged Jack t'wards the path of least resistance? This wasn't him. This wasn't what he wanted. Him and Jack Sparrow, that was one thing. Din't mean he wanted it from just anyone. Din't mean he wanted _to thrust and bite and kiss and fuck_ it from Jamie Martingale, no matter what a good companion he was, no matter that he'd lost his love, no matter that he was a fine and handsome creature. (Jack squeezed his eyes shut 'til light bloomed in the darkness, driving out the memory of Martingale near-naked in that coat).

"Jamie Martingale," growled Jack, heaving himself up from under the blanket without releasing his hold on the other's hair. "You ain't who I want." And, softer even as he roughly hauled Martingale up beside him, "My heart's given."

"It -- ow! -- it ain't your heart I'm after," said Martingale sulkily; and, twisting away, he slid his hands back down over Jack's tingling chest, over his ribs, down --

"I said no!" cried Jack, provoked beyond sense, and he got both hands on Martingale's bony shoulders and shoved him away, hard as he could.

Martingale cried out: there was a loud thump as he crashed against the bed-post and fell, cushioned by the blankets, down onto the bare floorboards.

In the hushed moment as Martingale drew breath, someone pounded on the wall.

"Fuck," breathed Jack: and, "Hide!" He reached down and dragged the blankets back onto the bed, covering himself; could hear footsteps, and the creak of a door opening. There was a glimmer of light out on the landing, a glimmer that grew as the door was pushed open.

"Jack? Is ... are you 'right?" came Bill's voice out of the darkness.

"Bad dream," said Jack breathlessly, sitting bolt upright in bed in the hope of distracting Bill's attention from any stray limbs that might be visible. At least the blankets, tangled over his hips, hid his own enthusiasm. He didn't dare look down at where Martingale'd fallen: just kept his eyes wide, blinking in the light of Bill's candle, and tried to look like a man woken from nightmare rather than one who'd been interrupted in flagrante. "Fell out of bed, din't I?" he growled.

"All right, all right," said Bill. His hand fluttered in the candlelight, waving Jack to silence. "I heard ... I just thought Jack -- the Captain -- might be back."

Jack did not have to feign the slump of his shoulders. He shook his head.

"Reckon he's headed back to the _Pearl_ ," he said, with convincing bitterness. "Couldn't stand being on land so long."

"Aye, that's Jack," said Bill fondly. "That'll be where he's got to."

He stood a moment, watching Jack. The candle was just bright enough for Jack to see the worried frown on Bill's face. The Imp, thwarted of its previous fun, goaded Jack -- weren't Bill fair game, barging in all sudden? -- but Jack heroically resisted that urge, too.

"How's Will?" he said instead. "Not too upset about ... everything?"

"He's fine," said Bill shortly. "No thanks to your lads."

Jack bit back a defense of his sons, having no desire to prolong this conversation. "Aye: well, I'm sorry for that," he said. "Hadn't you best get back to him? Don't want him waking and finding you gone, eh?"

"Course not," said Bill. "Sleep well, Jack." And, as he closed the door, "Don't worry 'bout Jack Sparrow: he'll've landed on his feet."

"That's cats," said Jack testily, making a show of rolling over and closing his eyes.

He counted to ten before there was a hoarse whisper from somewhere beneath the bed. "Jack? Mr Shaftoe?"

"All right?" said Jack, wishing the words back as soon as he'd spoken 'em. Of _course_ Jamie Martingale wasn't all right. He'd watched his lover die, in this strange and fearful city; sought comfort from Jack himself, and been rebuffed; and 'scaped embarrassment, if not worse, by the narrowest of margins. Jack's throat itched at the thought of Bootstrap's disgust, his judgement, his ...

"You hit me," said Martingale sulkily.

"Aye, an' I'll do it again if need be," said Jack in a fierce whisper, his blood still roaring in his ears. "Jamie, I'm sorry for your loss. But I can't ..."

He could not quite say what it was that he couldn't do: but perhaps the anguish in his voice spoke for him, for Martingale just sighed.

"You better get back to bed," said Jack wearily. "Take the brandy: it's over there. An' Mr Martingale, it ain't ..."

"It's Captain Sparrow you want," murmured Martingale. His voice sounded ragged. "Not me."

"Not you," said Jack, because not saying it would be worse. "Off you go, mate. Hope the brandy helps."

And waited, hardly breathing, as Martingale's hand brushed against his cheek; as Martingale padded softly across the floor, and eased the door open, and pulled it gently shut behind him.

Jack's heart was hammering, and his prick, pushing into his own fist, was achingly hard. Oh, his blood was up all right, and no Jack Sparrow here to ... to help him with that situation. But at least he was alone: no interfering Bill Turner, no needy Jamie Martingale. Just Jack and his bright memories, and his sulky familiar complaining that he was no fun any more, no fun at all.

Jack thought hard about Sparrow -- about the glitter of his sharp smile, the heat of his kiss, the pounding of his pulse around Jack as his body invited Jack inside -- as his own hand stroked slow and easy where Martingale's had been; and if Sparrow's phant'sied hair felt silkier than before, if his jet-black eyes were paled to murky green, that was nobody's business but Jack's own.

* * *

"Is Captain Sparrow back yet?" asked Will, industriously spooning up gruel. The bandages on his hand were clean and unbloodied. Perhaps, thought Bill sourly, the injury'd given him some appetite at last.

"No, William, he ain't," said Jack Shaftoe. "Eat up, or you won't grow up strong like your da."

Shaftoe looked a sight less healthy than young Will, this morning: red-eyed from strong spirits and lack of sleep, scowling and sour-faced. Hadn't slept well, he'd told Bill: and Bill could well believe it, what with all the racket Shaftoe'd been making in his sleep. Not that it'd been half as loud as when Sparrow'd been sharing his bed. Not that Bill'd grudge him _that_ sort of enjoyment for a moment, not the way he looked today. Bloody Sparrow, swanning off without a thought for others!

"Has he killed someone with his sword?" enquired Will, through a messy mouthful.

"What? Why would he have killed anyone?" demanded Bill. He shot a reproachful look at Shaftoe, who was grinning.

"No, Captain Sparrow wouldn't kill anyone," said Shaftoe gravely. "Not unless they were very wicked. And, and threatened him first."

"Like Jimmy and Danny threatened me?" asked Will, his brow furrowing at this intimation that sometimes violence _could_ solve everything.

"Not at all," said Bill quickly, silencing Shaftoe with a promissory glare. "Jimmy and Danny were _very naughty boys_ , and their father made sure they were punished for it."

"Actually," began Will, and then he flicked a glance at Jack Shaftoe and was silent.

"What?" said Bill irritably, looking from one to the other of 'em. "Mr Shaftoe, did you or did you not make 'em sorry for it?"

"Aye," said Shaftoe soberly, though Bill could see his mouth twitching. "Very sorry, weren't they, Will? But it's all done with now, and we promised, din't we, Will? that we wouldn't make fun of 'em, after."

Will's mouth was full, but he nodded enthusiastically.

Bill let it go. If Shaftoe'd got young Will on his side, despite being the progenitor of the miscreants, then Bill wasn't one to interfere. He had weightier matters to occupy his mind this morning.

"So," he said, "what happens now? With that poor dead Injun?"

Shaftoe, gnawing on a heel of bread, shrugged.

"An' where's Jamie got to?"

"I'm here," came a hoarse and sullen voice from the stairway.

"Christ, lad! You look --" Bill caught himself, and glanced at his son, and modified his expostulation. "Come an' sit down, Jamie: have some bread, an' some coffee, and see if that don't revive you a little."

Martingale rolled his eyes (all right, 'revive' might not've been the best word) but he came and sat down next to Bill.

"What've you done to yourself?" said Bill, aghast.

"Wha'?"

"You're all bruised," said Bill. "Here." Mirroring the location of the swollen, livid mark that marred Martingale's jaw and cheekbone.

"Is that from where Mistress Eliza's man hit you?" said Will curiously, dripping milk over the table-top. "That was _days_ ago."

"Must've fallen," said Martingale, scowling into his cup.

Jack Shaftoe looked up at the lad, and opened his mouth; but he closed it again before any, doubtless inappropriate, remark emerged. Bill gave him an approving nod. Not fair to mock a man grieving.

"D'you know if there are any ... any Arrangements?" Bill said, kind as he could, to Martingale. "For ... for the body?"

The lad's blank, bemused look was answer enough. Bill sighed.

"I'll lay it ain't as simple as a sailcloth shroud and an hour's digging," he said. "Mr Shaftoe, you're a native of this place. What's the story, when a fellow dies?"

Jack Shaftoe sat back, spreading his hands wide in a speaking gesture. "There's a coffin to be bought," he said slowly, brow furrowed with the effort of remembering. "Or a pauper's grave at the churchyard, if ..." He glanced uncertainly at Martingale. "But there's laws about that, I'm sure of it."

It had to be spoken of, never mind the baleful look that Martingale was directing at Shaftoe. Bill cleared his throat, with no very clear idea of what to say next, or how to ease the tension 'tween the two.

"I've taken care of all that," said a woman's voice, crisply, from the open doorway.

It was Mistress Eliza, in a plain dress of some dark heavy cloth, all spotted with rain. Bill could not help but smile at her, though he never thought he'd be pleased to see her face, not after she'd spirited poor bloody Will-the-Indian away from all his friends. At least he'd had a clean bed to die in: at least he'd had physick, and care, and Martingale at his side.

"The funeral is set for seven of the clock, tomorrow evening," Eliza informed them all, stepping closer to the fire to warm herself. Her servant, Moggs, lurked by the door, bestowing an expressionless stare impartially upon the three men. "At the church of St Olave's, close by the house where ... where he rests."

"We're grateful to you," said Jack Shaftoe, rather gruffly, once a narrow-eyed look at Martingale had failed to elicit any acknowledgement of this generosity.

"I'll speak with Captain ... Sparrow, was it?" said Eliza, looking around the room as though she might've failed to notice Jack Sparrow's presence. "About the, the details."

The _accounting_ , thought Bill bitterly. All fine intentions, but 'twas Will's friends that'd carry the burden. "He ain't here just now," he said.

"Perhaps you could fetch him?" said Eliza. "I'm sure he'd want to pay his respects to Weihahi."

"Who?" said Bill. "Oh, you mean Will."

"Weihahi," echoed Jamie Martingale, seeming to come properly awake at last. "Aye, Mistress Eliza: we'll send for the Captain. D'you think ... d'you think he'll reach us in time, from Rochester?"

"Rochester?" said Eliza blankly. She was no more'n a slip of a lass, Bill saw now: barely twenty, if he was any judge. Yet she was as assured as any lady twice her age: and she seemed to know exactly what needed to be done.

"Aye," said Bill, pleased to have a solid, unarguable reason for calling Jack Sparrow back to finish up his business. "Captain Sparrow's back with the ship: but he'll surely return for such a solemn occasion."

Shaftoe looked as though he might be about to argue the point, but Bill flicked a warning glance at him and he subsided.

"We'll send a messenger," decreed Eliza. "Moggs? Can you find us a man with a horse?"

The man said nothing, but inclined his head. His wet coat flapped around his knees as he went out into the rain.

"I'm sorry for your friend's death," said Eliza to Jamie Martingale, as though the two of them were alone. "I know how deeply you cared for him. But your friends will look after you, and mourn with you."

Martingale raised his reddened eyes to meet Eliza's blue gaze. Slowly, like an old man, he shook his head.


	37. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Thirty-Seven

  


 

Bootstrap had been pacing impatiently for at least an hour; at five o’clock, he could bear it no more.

“That’s it, Jack, we’ve got to go.”

Will leapt obediently to his feet, but Jack stayed right where he was, sitting backwards on a chair, staring out the window.

“ _Now_ ,” said Bill firmly, “Or Martingale’ll think we ain’t coming, and you know what a bee he’s got in his bonnet about nobody caring enough.”

“We can’t go, Bill,” said Jack (rather calmly and reasonably he thought—he really shouldn’t have to explain this to Bill, of all people), “because Captain Sparrow ain’t here yet.”

Though he should be. A day and a half, for a man to ride to Rochester and get the message to the _Pearl_ , and for Sparrow to make a hasty return for poor Will’s interment; perfectly bloody doable. Couldn’t Swift Nick make York in seventeen minutes, or whatever the fuck the story was? Jack suspected that delays might have been caused by Jack Sparrow’s excessive vanity. Probably insisting on a full suit of funereal black, fitted to best shew the slender line of his waist. New boots. A black silk sash, p’rhaps?

(Jack Shaftoe had never in his life spent so much time considering clothes, as when he was considering them upon the corpus of Captain Jack Sparrow.)

Bill made a _stay there_ gesture at his son, hovering by the door, and came and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “If he ain’t here yet, then he’s too late,” he said gently. “Come on, Jack. I’ve written it all down, how to get there, the note’s on the table; if he ‘rrives, he’ll know where to come.”

“You go,” said Jack, mulishly. “An’ tell Martingale I’ll be there in time.”

He did not look round. Heard Bill sigh heavily, and leave.

Jack Shaftoe hated waiting, hated it with a virulent passion. It went against every instinct in his body, and wound him up taut and irritable. For the past twenty-four hours, he’d avoided it by dint of traipsing around London distributing Eliza’s prettily printed funeral tickets to everyone he knew; told Jamie that it wouldn’t be a proper send-off without plenty of mourners. Some of ‘em had even met the dead man, too.

And it had been the perfect opportunity for a little delicate investigation as to Jack Sparrow’s possible whereabouts. Perfect, and yet…

Entirely unsuccessful. The bastard had up and run without anyone so much as glimpsing his departure.

So, sitting here in the gathering dark, peering down Fenchurch Street, Jack was not in a happy frame of mind. That something bad had happened to Sparrow was seeming more and more probable. The best possible alternative, at this point, was that Jack would—any moment now—spy Jack Sparrow swaying through the throng, that faint look of distaste on his face that he wore on all London’s streets. And yet…

Even if that _did_ eventuate, it still meant that Sparrow had up and run and left Jack without so much as a _See you later, mate_.

Not that they were joined at the hip. Not that they were a, a, a pair. A _couple_. Ridiculous bloody idea.

But still.

And then Jack’s heart leapt in a most unseemly fashion, as he picked out two tall, familiar figures rounding the corner: John Burton’s blond head, and Djagdao’s, sleek and black. The crowd parted for them, heads turning to watch the Indian’s progress. And following them, two more: he got up, and opened the grimy window for a better view. Those rusty curls could only be Mick Picken, and that gangly creature behind him, head swivelling in astonishment at all the sights of Fenchurch Street, was surely young Joe Henry. And behind them, there’d be…

Jack craned, and waited; and swore.

No Jack Sparrow.

He took the stairs three at a time, and was waiting at the street door when the little party arrived.

“Jack!” said Burton, who if Jack wasn’t mistaken had recently been punched on the jaw; and Christ Almighty, did Djagdao have a shiner?

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Burton and Djagdao exchanged an unreadable look. Joe Henry laughed, and said, “Mr Burton weren’t so sure it were advisable for Mr Djagdao to come back here.” His glee was unmistakable, and would have been considerably more infectious than any pox, if Jack hadn’t had quite so much on his mind right then.

So instead he said brusquely, “I can guess the rest. Glad to see you, anyway, gents; now chuck your gear in there, we’re late”; and once they’d complied, he slammed the door and set off down the street, demanding over his shoulder, “Why the fuck didn’t Sparrow come?”

“That’s what we din’t understand, Jack, when that messenger came. You sent for the Captain, but he was never on board,” Burton said, jogging a little to catch up.

“He ain’t with the ship?” Jack stopped. _All_ of Jack stopped, and the coldness in his heart had nothing to do with the climactic conditions.

“No… where is he?”

“Fucked if I know, Mr Burton,” said Jack. “But we’ll have to run around in circles and panic about that later; right now we’ve got a mate to bury.” And he clamped his jaw tight against the fears that were rising in him, and strode on.

 

 

As they turned into Coleman Street, mourners were spilling out of the house with the sign of the Doctor’s Head. There was Bob, with Clodagh holding tight to the boys; he raised his chin in greeting. And there, Flora, who slid her gaze from Jack to the twins and back again, with a wink. Most of ‘em, though, Jack didn’t recognise; no doubt Mistress Eliza had roped in any number of her high-minded friends for this event. Showing off her philanthropy. She certainly wasn’t stinting on costs, neither; they all wore black armbands, and carried heavy wax candles, ready to light the coffin’s way to the church.

“Want to go and pay respects, ‘fore he’s all sealed up?” said Jack to Djagdao. The Indian nodded, and started to follow Jack up the steps to the door. But the door opened, then, and out came Jamie Martingale; he stopped on the threshold, and Jack came to a halt.

Mistress Eliza was indeed not stinting. Jamie had been fitted out in a suit of black mourning crepe, offset by a high white stock and white stockings; his hair, glorious at the worst of times, shone like the wing of a raven. The dull shadow of a bruise on his jaw only seemed to set off the creamy glow of his skin, and his eyes were huge and dark. He was quite painfully beautiful; and Jack, beset by anger and worry over the whereabouts of Jack Sparrow, suffered a shameful moment of regret for having pushed this—this _vision_ away so cruelly not two nights since.

“Where’s the Captain?” Jamie demanded.

“Well, mate, we’re not entirely sure.” It wasn’t worth going into the details of it, not right now. “But we’d like to pay our respects, ‘fore we—”

“You’re too late,” said Jamie, and swallowed. “We’re just… closing it up. But will you carry him? There’s Mr Turner too, and Mr Shaftoe’s brother, an’ Mr Moggs, an’ you fellows will make eight.”

All equipped with their black armbands, they were led into the black-draped parlour, where the coffin was just being nailed shut. There was a strong smell of rosemary, from the sprigs that the ladies were carrying against the risk of any unpleasant odours; hardly necessary, Jack judged, in this weather, but a nice touch nonetheless. He manoeuvered himself to the back of the draped coffin, across from Bill Turner, who’d greeted the late arrivals, and then given Jack a quick and curious look, doubtless a commentary on Sparrow’s absence; Jack’d just shrugged. Now wasn’t the time to talk about it.

The funeral procession got underway. Jamie, with Eliza on his arm, walked in front of the coffin; the gaggle of mourners followed behind, their candles lighting up the dark streets. They attracted plenty of onlookers; painted savages weren’t buried every day at St Olave’s. In fact, Jack was still distantly amazed that this one was managing to be. Eliza must have some good blackmail material on the curate.

Whatever she’d said or done to bribe the fellow, he did a nice job of it. Managed to entirely avoid the awkward (and yet very salient) facts that Will was a heathen, a pirate, and given to sodomy; not easy, Jack wouldn’t’ve thought, since those were more or less his defining features. Talked instead about the innocence of the unsaved, and how Weihahi’d come to these shores to learn the ways of civilised men, and was a blank slate, as innocent as a baby.

Luckily, it was dark enough that Jack could indulge in a little therapeutic eye-rolling without anyone noticing.

Best bit of the whole thing, in Jack’s opinion (apart from the impending drinking binge, of course) was after they’d lowered the coffin into the grave, and done the dust-to-dust bit; as soon as the churchy stuff was done, Djagdao stumped up to the head of the grave, and knelt down in the cold dirt, and drew two lines of grave-mud across his cheekbones; then started up a low rumbling chant, and took out his knife and made a sharp quick cut over the meat of his thumb, holding it out over the coffin and dripping bloodily. The Londoners were speechless, and the priest took a step forward, muttering, “I really don’t think—!”; but Eliza put a hand to his arm.

Jamie stepped forward, and crouched down beside the Chibcha.

“Djagdao? Why are you doing this? The blood?”

“It means that he will recognise me, in the next world. When I come. Because, if my blood travels with him, then we have never been parted.”

Jamie said nothing. Just held out his hand; and Djagdao cut him, and they bled together, into the grave of their friend.

 

 

 

“So where the hell’s he got to?” was Bill’s opening sally, as they trudged back to Eliza’s house. Behind them, Burton was explaining to Djagdao that according to English tradition, it was now their solemn duty to drink an awful lot. Loath as Jack was to get into this conversation with Bill, his other alternatives—Bob and Clodagh weren’t far ahead of him, and Flora and a couple of her friends kept waving gaily at him, giddily cheerful for funeral-goers—weren’t much more appetising.

“I don’t bloody know,” he said grimly. “And I’m buggered if I know where to look next, neither. Did he know anyone else in London?”

Bill shook his head and shrugged. “Think it’s time to try the hospitals,” he said.

“And the prisons. And the mad-houses,” said Jack, aiming for optimism; hospital was the last place he wanted the poor bastard to’ve ended up. Bill didn’t seem cheered by these options, but was distracted by the arrival of his son.

“Father? Shall I carry your candle for you? It looks awfully heavy,” said William helpfully. Bill smiled at his thoughtful offspring, and handed it over. Will scampered away.

Danny wriggled through the crowd, and, mysteriously, made the same kind offer to Jack, who told him to shove off; Danny scowled, and then even more mysteriously, checked to see whether Burton’s great meaty arms were being overtaxed by the carrying of a light. Jack’s suspicions were deeply aroused, and then fanned into full alert as he caught sight of William Turner, candle-less, running along beside Jimmy.

Little shits.

“Bill,” he said, “you’re a good father, ain’t you?”

“What? Well, I do my best, Jack, but I don’t know whether—”

“You’re better’n I am, though?”

Bill just grinned.

“So you’re probably the best one,” Jack said regretfully, “to deal with the fact that our children are stealing the funeral candles and fencing them to the skinny fellow in that doorway over there?”

“What the—? William! Get your worthless hide over here!”

William looked over when he heard his father’s bellow, eyes going wide and fearful. Jimmy grinned demonically and grabbed his new mate’s arm, pulling him away into the dark safe confusion of the procession.

“Here,” said Jack helpfully, handing over his candle to the cursing Bill. “You might need this.”

Parental responsibilities discharged, he slipped into a doorway, pretending a problem with the sole of his boot, and just rested there in the shadow for a moment. Funerals were never fun, as such—well, not usually, though he could recall some notable exceptions to the rule—but this one was worse than most. Poor Martingale, so bereft, and with things so odd between ‘em, Jack felt quite helpless to improve the situation; and there were more annoying people to contend with than you could shake a stick at, and no Jack Sparrow to laugh with about ‘em all, later.

That, obviously, was the core of it. No Jack Sparrow. Where in God’s name had he got to?

Jack ground his teeth, and punched the wall with the side of his fist. Which hurt, but also seemed to help; so he did it again, several times, and made some rather loud but undeniably cathartic groaning noises to go with it. This, however, had the effect of making several passers-by cross over to the other side of the street, and murmur nervously amongst themselves.

Fuck it. Jack needed a drink, and although there was indubitably a lot of drink to be had at Mistress Eliza’s, he couldn’t bear any of the nonsense that would go with it. He slipped away from the tail end of the funeral party, and followed his nose through several alleyways until he found a suitably disreputable-looking pub.

There he ordered two tots of rum, downed them immediately, ordered three more—because he believed in doing things properly—and was just wending his way through to the darkened back corner of the room, where he could wallow in peace, when he bumped into someone.

“Sorry,” said Jack, not paying much attention; but the someone had leaped like a scalded cat, and swore vilely, plastering himself back against the wall as if Jack were some enraged wild animal; which behaviour was enough to draw Jack’s curiosity, and when he took a closer look—

Swift Nick was nastily bruised and scabbed, which, while aesthetically repulsive, was the most still the most pleasurable aspect of seeing his damn’d face again. “Oh for _fuck’s_ sake!” Jack expostulated. “Not you again!”

Nick was staring at him with a strange admixture of fear and confusion. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded. “How’d you get out? Keep away from me, you bloody lunatic! I’ve got plenty of friends here, I’m warning you!”

Tempting as it was to make disparaging comments on the likelihood of such a repulsive specimen of humankind having any mates at all, Jack was still sober enough to be more intrigued by the wretch’s first utterance.

“How’d I get out? Get out of where?” he demanded; and when he got no reply but a wild-eyed stare, bared his teeth and growled.

Threatening, the second time round, was always so damn easy. Swift Nick twitched, and scowled, and spat, “Out of fucking Newgate, you piece of shit.”


	38. European Physick, Chapter Thirty-Eight

  


Jamie's friends did not belong in Mistress Eliza's house, amid the books and the paintings and the fine things. Burton's bruised, weatherbeaten face, Djagdao's coppery skin with its leaden undercast of chill, Joe Henry's gangly awkwardness all seemed like ghosts from another life. Though Jamie had to admit that Bill Turner, chatting to Bob Shaftoe in a corner, looked somewhat healthier than usual: his wife's doing, Jamie didn't doubt. Bill's hand rested firmly on the shoulder of a small, squirming Shaftoe-brat: his own son, Will -- oh how it hurt, worse than the sting of the cut across Jamie's palm, to use that name for another! -- stood obediently still and quiet between the two men. Bootstrap and Bob must have a lot to talk about, thought Jamie: and now Jack Shaftoe wasn't here to interrupt them, as he so often did, they'd free rein.

 

 

Where on earth had Shaftoe got to? He'd been in the church, Jamie'd seen him: he'd smiled at Jamie, albeit awkwardly. (Jamie was past squirming or blushing at the thought of the way he'd climbed into Shaftoe's bed t'other night. He'd been half out of his mind with grief and drink; and anyway, it hadn't been anything he didn't want. But perhaps _Shaftoe_ was still uneasy with it.) Bad enough to have the Captain absent, without Mr Shaftoe disappearing too.

 

 

"Seen Jack?" he said to Joe Henry, who was drinking from a pewter cup, and eyeing it in a distinctly avaricious manner.

 

 

"You mean Shaftoe?" said Joe, as if the Captain'd suddenly appeared out of nowhere and made that distinction necessary once more.

 

 

"Aye," said Jamie.

 

 

"Not since we left the, the churchyard," said Joe. "Mebbe he's got some business somewhere. Mebbe he's off to see the Captain."

 

 

"I can't believe he weren't here," said Jamie numbly. "Captain Sparrow, I mean. Not for me: for Weihahi -- Will, I mean. Captain never had no problems with him. Why wouldn't he come?"

 

 

"P'rhaps he din't hear of it," offered Joe. "My da never came home for my brother's burying. Showed up the next week, an' din't know Peter was dead."

 

 

"I'm sorry for it," said Jamie. "But the Captain: where's he got to, if not the _Pearl_? Mr Shaftoe was sure that'd be where he'd turn up. Though he never said a word to any of us, not even Bootstrap."

 

 

"Mebbe Mr Shaftoe's gone after him," said Joe, draining his cup. "D'you want another drink, mate?" He peered at Jamie, frowning. "You ain't looking so good."

 

 

Jamie rolled his eyes. "'S a funeral," he said, and it came out all slurred. "'Nother drink."

 

 

But once Joe'd gone, the vultures swooped in. First was John Burton, clapping Jamie on the shoulder and mumbling something about knowing how it felt, to bury a good mate. Jamie bit back argument, for of course poor Burton _did_ know. 'Twas less than half a year since they'd laid Cooper to rest, slain by Spanish pirates on Saint Lucia. (Jamie scratched his ribs, where the long white scar still sometimes itched.) Burton'd slept on Cooper's grave, that night, but Jamie didn't think the priest at St Olave's would approve of such behaviour. And 'sides, it wasn't really warm enough, here in London Town, to sleep under the stars.

 

 

"It was the cold took Will," he said to Burton, for something to say. "Best get Djagdao back to the sun, eh?"

 

 

"Can't, can we, 'til Captain's back?" said Burton. He slid a glance at Jamie, and Jamie was shocked to see anger there.

 

 

"You reckon he just went off, without a word?" he said. "Captain Sparrow wouldn't do that."

 

 

"Wouldn't be the first time," said Burton sullenly. "An' all of us left to sit around scratching our arses, 'til -- I beg pardon, Mistress."

 

 

Eliza, who'd been pestering Djagdao (Jamie could see the Chibcha man making faces behind her back), ignored Burton, but smiled warmly at Jamie. "What will you do, without Weihahi, Mr Martingale?"

 

 

Jamie shrugged. "Back to the _Pearl_ for me, Mistress Eliza," he said, summoning a wan smile.

 

 

"If you wished to leave behind that life," said Eliza solemnly, "I would offer you a place, and a roof over your head, and a wage."

 

 

"Live ashore?" said Jamie blankly. "Nah, I'm good with pirating."

 

 

Eliza was shaking her head. "Only because no better prospect has presented itself to you," she said, holding his gaze. Her eyes were almost as blue as Jack Shaftoe's. "But it is a short and wicked life, Mr Martingale, and full of sin and depravity."

 

 

"I _like_ it," protested Jamie.

 

 

"The lure --" began Eliza; but there was some disturbance at the door, and she turned to look over her shoulder.

 

 

Jamie looked, too, and forgot his argument. For here was Mr Jack Shaftoe, gloriously dishevelled and positively fizzing with merry violence, striding into the room as though he owned it. Shaftoe's right hand was twisted into the collar of a snivelling, worse-for-wear wretch -- bleeding from the nose and mouth, both eyes blacked, his face gory where some older scabs'd broken open -- who stumbled as he was hauled upright for all to see.

 

 

"Mr Shaftoe," began Eliza imperiously, "I really don't think this is --"

 

 

"Ain't that your mate Nevison?" said Burton over her.

 

 

"Aye," said Jack Shaftoe, with a truly ferocious grin that sparked its twin on Jamie's own face. "John Nevison, the notorious thief and terror of the roads, whom I encountered, er, on my way here." He raised his voice to be heard above the buzz of commentary. "An' it seems he's robbed us of _another_ prize, since last we saw him in Gravesend. Not only has he been spreading Vile Calumnies," Shaftoe went on, fixing his brother with a triumphant look, and cuffing Nevison left-handed as the highwayman opened his mouth to speak, "but he's the one as took our Captain from us. He's the one who had Jack Sparrow carted away."

 

 

"'Twas a mistake!" cried Nevison, his words somewhat mangled by his swollen mouth.

 

 

"Too damn right it was, " said Shaftoe cheerfully. "Listen to this, eh? He mistook Jack Sparrow for _me_!"

 

 

Nearly everyone laughed. Eliza did not. "Mr Shaftoe," she said loudly, "what, precisely, is your accusation against this man? And upon what evidence is it founded?"

 

 

"My accusation," said Jack Shaftoe fiercely, no hint of a smile now, "is that he caused Jack Sparrow to be imprisoned in Newgate, for a crime of which he's innocent."

 

 

Bob sucked in his breath noisily. Jamie wondered if he, too, was trying to think of a crime so eclectic that Jack Sparrow'd never committed it.

 

 

"And my evidence, madam, is this bastard's confession," said Shaftoe coldly, shaking Nevison like a terrier shaking a rabbit. Drops of blood spattered on the bright weave of the carpet. "Tell them, Mr Nevison! Tell them how you sentenced Jack Sparrow to death!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack Shaftoe was only half-listening to Nevison's halting, stammered tale. The other half of his attention was given to Nevison's Audience, who shewed a pleasing indignation as the account proceeded.

"... An' the last time I met with Mr Shaftoe here, he ... he was most uncivil, though we was old friends: looked keen enough to set me up and see me swing for some trifling profit I'd made."

Jack heard Burton growl like a dog at this description of their dear-bought wealth.

 

 

"... So when Sparrow --"

 

 

" _Captain_ Sparrow," corrected Jack, tightening his hold on Nevison's dirty collar.

 

 

"When _Captain_ Sparrow said he'd proof against me, why, I knew I'd best get some leverage: and, seein' the opportunity to get two birds with one stone, I sent to the King's Messengers, sayin' that a man guilty of crimes against the currency was to be found at such-and-such an address, his name being Jack Shaftoe."

Jack cast an eye over the listeners. Clodagh looked fascinated: Danny was tugging at her sleeve, no doubt demanding an explanation. Bob just looked stoic. 'Twas hardly the first time he'd heard his brother accused of some elaborate offense; though Jack felt he'd better clarify the point that this particular instance was, in fact, entirely Nevison's invention.

 

 

"So, having concocted this _unfounded_ accusation," he growled, "you never thought to make sure that they'd taken the right man?"

 

 

Nevison shrugged, though it obviously hurt him to do so. "Din't think they'd be so daft," he said.

 

 

Jack opened his mouth to advert upon the subject of human stupidity, but was balked of the opportunity. "And how do you propose to make amends?" came Eliza's cool voice.

 

 

"Amends?" scoffed Jack. "Let's lock the bastard up and chuck away the key." This was not, in fact, the solution that had first occurred to him, but he adjudged that Mistress Eliza would raise some tedious objections to the most practical reparation.

 

 

The mention of a life sentence seemed sufficient to please his audience (though not his victim). Danny and Jimmy, twisting away from their auntie's restraining hand, cheered. Jack eyed them speculatively. Perhaps they could be employed as part of Nevison's punishment?

 

 

"I'll make you a deal," said Nevison, in a low voice intended for Jack alone.

 

 

Jack cocked an eyebrow.

 

 

"I'll go and tell 'em it was all a lie, a mistake, the wrong man and no crime committed ... _if_ you give me that Proof against me that Sparrow talked of."

 

 

"Proof?" said Jack, loud enough for everyone to hear. "What proof'd that be, then? And when'd he tell you of it?"

 

 

Nevison would not meet his eye. "Nothing," he said sullenly, with a loud, sanguinary sniff. "He never said."

Quick as a flash, Jack's knife was in his hand, and his hand up at Nevison's throat. Clodagh and Flora cried out: Eliza's lips thinned.

 

 

"Best tell me who, an' what, an' where," said Jack. "Or I'll make you sorry for all your lies: I'm sure you've heard of the atrocities of which we _pirates_ are capable, when we feel like it." In truth he had a sharp desire to visit more pain 'pon Nevison, to see him bleed and hear his cries: but, satisfactory though this would undoubtedly be, it wouldn't bring Jack Sparrow free.

 

 

"Mr Shaftoe?" said someone diffidently.

 

 

Jack refocussed his attention. "Jamie?" he said. "'M sorry to drag this matter into such a solemn occasion, but --"

 

 

"Never mind that," said Martingale impatiently. He was swaying slightly: Doctor Shaftoe diagnosed a dose or two of strong spirits. "But the Captain made -- well, he sent a note to this 'un here," indicating Nevison with a jerk of his head, "to bid him to a meeting."

 

 

"Did he now?" said Jack, jabbing the point of his knife up against Nevison's stubbled jaw. "An' where was this meeting, eh? And to what purpose?"

 

 

Martingale shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "But Nevison hadn't been seen, they reckoned. Then Captain Sparrow sent a letter, an' now this Nevison's in town and Captain's in gaol: an' I reckon he's lying through his teeth."

 

 

"He ain't got many left to lie through," noted Jack. "So, Mr Martingale, did Jack say anything to you of this Proof Incontrovertible?"

 

 

Martingale shook his head: and Bill Turner, coming up to glare at Nevison, said, "Prob'ly took it with him: kept it on his person."

 

 

Jack scowled, as much at the notion of Sparrow keeping such a secret from him as at the murkiness of Nevison's motives.

 

 

"Then we'll have to break him out of Newgate," he said. "And send this bastard there in his place, when we've that proof of his." Nevison was making choking noises, which drew Jack's attention to the fact that he'd drawn the man's collar as tight as a garotte. He loosened his hold a little, and Nevison sagged heavily, gasping.

 

 

"An eye for an eye?" said Eliza, wrinkling her nose at the smell emanating from the highwayman's limp, twitching body.

 

 

" _You_ know why 'e wants Sparrow," croaked Nevison, just as Bob came up to inspect the captive.

 

 

Jack could practically see Bob's ears prick up with interest. He dropped his knife, because he didn't want Nevison dead just yet, and then let the red rush of rage carry him. In a moment, with the brisk application of a crooked elbow and a hammering blow, the highwayman had fallen unconscious to the ruined carpet.

 

 

"I do beg your pardon, Mistress Eliza," Jack said, "but I was weary of holding onto the lout. B'sides, he's sure to be infested with vermin." And he made a show of brushing his hands and his coat.

 

 

Eliza stepped back, wholly distracted from any inappropriate thoughts occasioned by Nevison's remark.

 

 

"Anyway," Jack went on, "as I was saying, we'd best plan how to extract Jack Sparrow from Newgate. Bob, d'you know --"

 

 

"Can't be done," said Bob. "You can't break a man out of Newgate, not without ten times the fortune you've accumulated of late."

 

 

Jack had not even glanced at Eliza, but she was already shaking her head. "I shall not subsidise the perversion of justice," she declared. "But ..."

 

 

"But?" said Flora sharply.

 

 

"This Proof of Captain Sparrow's," said Eliza slowly, glancing round to ensure that she had everyone's attention. "Do any of you know its nature?"

 

 

No one volunteered any salient information.

 

 

"Knowing Jack," said Bill, chuckling, "chances are he was calling Nevison's bluff: I'll lay he'd no such Proof."

 

 

Eliza looked at him in disbelief.

 

 

"If this bloke's such a peril," said Bob, toeing the unconscious form of John Nevison, "there'll be plenty of proof to put 'im away. Perhaps one of your fine new friends, Jack, could help you to't." He flicked a disparaging glance at Eliza.

 

 

That lady was not intimidated. "It's true," she said, "that I've friends who might be able to supply evidence against this man, if he is truly the criminal you paint him."

 

 

Jack repressed the impulse to point out that it hardly mattered what _else_ Swift Nick was guilty of, for he'd surely stolen their gold, and deprived them of Jack Sparrow: both capital crimes in Jack's book.

 

 

" _I've_ ... friends, of that sort, too," said Flora disdainfully. " _Healthy_ friends, if you take my meaning, Jack-my-love."

 

 

"My thoughts exactly," said Jack quickly, bussing Flora soundly on the cheek (worth it for the Look Bob gave him) and hoping she wouldn't call him on his claim to've had the notion first. "I'm sure one of your fine gentlemen'll be willing to show his gratitude in some evidentiary form."

 

 

"Charming," said Eliza icily. "I really don't think that your clients -- I beg your pardon, your _friends_ \-- move in the same circles as the gentlemen who aided my own escape from vile enslavement. Not that there's any comparison 'twixt Barbary and Newgate, of --"

 

 

"You'd be surprised what circles some of those gents move in, madam," said Flora, with a lewd gesture that made Jamie Martingale splutter with laughter. "Indeed, 'tis through Captain Sparrow and Mr Shaftoe that they've been eased of the _consequences_ of those ... motions. I reckon they'd be only too happy to be of assistance."

 

 

"I shouldn't think that any common shopkeeper --"

 

 

"That's all _you_ know!" cried Flora, flushed and furious. Jack stepped back to give the ladies some room, and saw Clodagh haul his boys away from the danger zone. "Why, I've kept company with Aldermen and Justices, Earls and Dukes -- not to mention that fine Mr Churchill who --"

 

 

"John Churchill?" interrupted Bob. "Why, John and I --"

 

 

"John Churchill?" said Eliza, with a silvery laugh. "I fear you've been deceived, child; Mr Churchill --"

 

 

"-- Has a scar clean across his arse, one side to t'other," snapped Flora, glaring around.

 

 

Eliza said nothing, but Jack saw how pale she'd gone.

 

 

"She's right, you know," he couldn't forbear from adding. Then, as Eliza shot him a deadly look, "Delightful! That's sorted, then. Flora, love, c'n you arrange some Proof against this envermined wretch? Mistress Eliza, may I prevail upon you, and on your very stalwart Mr Moggs, to take custody of Mr Nevison 'til such time as Proof has been acquired? Bootstrap, Bob, lads: we've a prisoner to rescue."

sorry about the weird spacing -- posting from a Linux machine, though why this makes a difference I don't know    



	39. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Thirty-Nine

  


_There is a knock on the door._

_Jack stares, and wonders. Is it the madam’s boy? Is it Jack Shaftoe’s Clodagh? Is it that damn’d John Nevison? Is it some new irritation from Shaftoe’s rich and chequered past?_

_He opens it, cautious, his right hand not far from his pistol._

_"Yes?" he says to the dark-cloaked gentleman who stands on the landing, hat clasped respectfully in his hand._

_"A message for Mr Jack Shaftoe," says the man._

_Jack pauses. “I don’t know a Jack Shaftoe,” he says. “Never heard of him.”_

_“Oh,” says the man. “My apologies, sir; I’ve been misinformed. So sorry to’ve disturbed you.”_

_“That’s quite alright,” says Jack genially, and smiles, and closes the door._

 

A particularly anguished cry jerked Jack awake, and for a hazy moment he was enveloped still by the cosy relief of his dream, in which history had been rewritten and the last two days had simply never been. But the moment was cruelly brief, and, as if he were plummeting down a well and landing with a thump at its dark bottom, Jack came to himself, and to the brutal, noisome, dark, louse-ridden, rat-infested reality of Newgate Gaol.

He did not open his eyes. If it were night still, there’d be naught to see; and if it were day… well, he’d rather it weren’t. Besides, he could feel the meaty, possessive hand of Nate Kincaid on his thigh, and there was no call to give the fellow any indication that Jack was awake.

_God dammit, Jack Shaftoe. Where are you?_

Jack ground his teeth, and for the thousandth time cursed himself for that ridiculous whim, for having claimed Jack Shaftoe’s name as his own. It was his own curiosity, his own jealousy, that’d led him to do it; couldn’t bear the idea of some new part of Shaftoe’s mosaicked past appearing and Jack himself having to stand there, again, all ignorant.

And now he couldn’t undo it.

They’d slapped manacles on him, as soon as the words “That’s me, sir” were out of his mouth. Cuffed him when he protested; cocked a pistol at his temple when he protested more emphatically; pistol-whipped him, when he protested in body as well as voice. And next thing he’d known, he was on a cold stone cellar floor, his head pounding, being pawed by not one, not two, but three men, who were systematically searching through his layers of clothing.

Jack’d elected to remain silent for a moment or two, despite the indignity, in hopes of discovering some salient information, such as what the fuck was happening to him. Luckily, his molesters were drunkenly garrulous.

“That’s what happens to you, ‘f you spend too long in furrin places. Fuckin’ disgusting, ain’t it?”

“I fink it’s a fuckin’ shame. Legend, he were. An’ now…”

“Now he’s a fuckin’ molly-boy! Look at it, will ye! The eyes on it!” A smelly hand grabbed Jack by the jaw, and tilted his face towards a light that glowed redly through his closed eyelids.

“Wot d’you fink? Straight to the Buggering Hold?”

_Oh. Holds. Gaol, definitely gaol. Hmm… Buggering Hold. Perhaps now would be a good time to speak up,_ thought Jack; but they all laughed noisily, when one of ‘em cried, “Nah, he’d prob’ly fink it was a fuckin’ reward!”

“So, what we got then?”

“A pistol, the sword, three knives; sneaky bastard, there was anuvver one down ‘is boot.”

_Oh bollocks._

“’M askin’ about money, fuckwit, _money_.”

“Bugger all. Five shillings here.”

“I only got sixpence.”

“The Ordinary ain’t goin’ to be too impressed wiv vat. What abaht these, then?” And the heaviest, most gold-laden of Jack’s braids was hefted, tossed, assessed.

“Fuck me, izzat a fuckin’ _bone_ , there?”

The thought of Jack Shaftoe’s fingerbone providing entertainment for these wretches was too much. Jack opened his eyes, smiled as fiercely as he could with his mouth closed (no point in advertising further gold, especially not _there_ ) and very quickly sat up.

“Can I take it,” he said, “that you gents are looking for some sort of _entrance fee_ to your fine establishment?”

If they were surprised by his sudden recovery, they didn’t let it bother them for long, especially once Jack revealed the coins sewn into the hem of his coat.

“Fank you very much,” said the shortest and ugliest of the brutes, with great satisfaction. “And welcome to Newgate, Shaftoe.”

“That’s very kind of you; I do feel obligated to point out, however, that I’m not actually this Shaftoe person at all.”

“That ain’t what you told the King’s Messengers.”

“That’s not strictly correct. I told them that I _was_ Mr Shaftoe on one occasion, I admit, but then I told them that I _wasn’t_ quite a number of times.”

“The things you tell ‘em _after_ the manacles go on ain’t quite so weighty,” Jack was advised; and with this, unfortunately, he was forced to concur.

“So what’s Mr Shaftoe done?” he asked, though the fact that he’d been arrested by the King’s Messengers was probably indication enough.

“You know what you’ve done,” the gaoler told him, as the other two fitted him for a leg-iron in an efficiently workmanlike manner. (It took another ten shillings, this time from a false pocket, to convince them to leave Jack’s boots on).

“Mr Shaftoe’s doubtless done lots of things,” said Jack testily, “so perhaps I could rephrase that question as ‘what are you imprisoning Mr Shaftoe for?’”

One of the shacklers nudged the other. “How long d’you fink Mr Shaftoe’s going to keep up the Mr Shaftoe-ing?”

“S’like talkin’ to the fuckin’ king, ain’t it?”

“You’re imprisoned, mate, for interfering with the coin of the realm; but if you’ve got anything else you’d like to advise us of, you’re welcome to talk.”

“No, no,” said Jack. Coining, then, or counterfeiting; hanging offences, both. “I think that’ll suffice.”

A chain was affixed to the shackle, and a large iron ball.

“Is that really necessary?”

“You don’t want the ball? ‘Ere, Mick, ‘e don’t want the ball.”

“There, an’ I was feelin’ so generous, an’ all! Oh well, no ball for you.”

“What’s the alternative to the ball?” Jack asked cautiously, wondering how much more secreted money he should reveal.

“The alternative is, we chain you to a wall.”

Jack reconsidered, and opined that it was quite a handsome ball, really.

Ball cradled in both arms, he was led by the two who’d shackled him down through the dim warrenny ways of the prison, past doorways from which emanated the most dispiriting sobbing, cursing, retching, groaning, et cetera, not to mention most dreadful odours of shit, vomit, rot, and filth in general; and past one, which, much to his surprise, seemed to both sound and smell a lot like a pub.

“What’s…?”

“Ain’t you never heard of the Black Dogge?”

Perhaps Newgate had potential after all? But the smell that greeted them a few minutes further on certainly put that thought out of Jack’s head. The gaolers’ hands went automatically to their noses; Jack stopped breathing, and nearly dropped his ball. He knew putrefaction when he smelt it.

“Disgusting,” said Mick. “Fuckin’ disgusting.”

“Forgive me asking,” Jack said rather faintly, “But shouldn’t you, p’rhaps, check in there? I think one of your charges might have passed on.”

“Nearly a month back. Fuckin’ relatives won’t pay to get ‘er back. No fuckin’ consideration.”

“Appalling,” Jack agreed, his temporary optimism quite thoroughly quashed; and their destination did nothing to resurrect it. He was shoved through a low door, beyond which a few candle-stubs burned, illuminating a Dantéan scene of despair and degradation. A hundred or more men, huddled filthy and chained and unwashed in a dank low-ceilinged cellar, its air thick and wet with mould and colder than the grave.

The dull rumble of their talk muted as they registered the new arrival. There was a pause for general staring, and then: “You’ve got to be fuckin’ joking!” growled someone. “There’s no more fuckin’ room in here, you whoreson cunts!”

“He’s only a littl’un!” cried Mick merrily, and the other gaoler held his lantern up by Jack’s face.

Jack endeavoured to look appropriately dangerous and intimidating, but the attempt was entirely undermined by his captor’s comment of, “And ain’t he pretty? This here’s Jack Shaftoe, boys. King of the Vagabonds, back from a Caribbean jaunt!”

“’Ave some fun wiv ‘im,” suggested Mick with a grimace, “’Fore Jack Ketch does, eh!”

Jack was shoved forward, and the door slammed behind him. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said. “Just ignore me. Pretend I’m not here. _I’m_ certainly pretending I’m not here, so if we all collude hard enough, I’m sure we can create some sort of mass hallucination of my non-existence.”

There was a crunching noise, which after some thought Jack identified as the sound of footsteps (though it would take him most of the day to understand that the crunch was produced by the popping of blood-fat louse-bodies) and a candle bobbed closer.

“You talk too much. But fuckin’ Bisley was right for once,” said its bearer. “You _are_ pretty.” And then, fiercely, as the candle swung about in a circle: “I claim him!”

A clamour of voices. “What?” “Why’s ‘e yours, eh?” “Who the fuck says you get to—”

“ _I_ say it,” growled the candle-bearer, and he brought his light closer to his own face. Which was enough to rob both his interlocutors and Jack himself of any words that might’ve been close to emerging.

The fellow was a good six inches taller than Jack, and heavy with it; thick dark hair and a great dark beard. It was possible that he’d been handsome once, since his brows were straight and strong, his nose ditto; but that time had passed. Now, he was missing an eye, and a large chunk of one cheekbone; the flesh was all scarred and twisted as though he’d been set upon with an axe, and his fierce expression twisted it all still further.

Christ Almighty. Jack rapidly considered his options, and came to a definite conclusion. This was nothing but a ridiculous misunderstanding, after all; all he needed to do was survive unscathed until it was all sorted out. Somehow. So he stuck out his hand in manly greeting. “Always pleased to make a new acquaintance,” he said. “I’m Jack.”

The felon stared suspiciously down at Jack’s hand, but didn’t take it. “Nate,” he said slowly. “Nate Kincaid.”

“Good to meet you, Nate. So, this is my first time in Newgate; but I gather we’re at liberty to wander about, if we don’t mind lugging these lovely balls around with us. Fancy showing me the sights?”

“Er,” said Nate, clearly not at all used to such unflustered and frankly co-operative reactions to being claimed as… as whatever Nate’d claimed Jack for. Which he suspected he knew, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. The important thing was that Nate was very large, and very scary, and therefore potentially very useful, if he could be kept sweet.

“In’t you goin’ to get a bit ‘o garnish off the fecker, Nate?” enquired a cadaverous creature, tiptoeing up behind Jack’s new mate and peering nervously round him, as though Jack might pounce at any moment.

“’Garnish’?” said Jack.

“It means, gi’s yer fuckin’ money,” said the walking corpse.

“I’m afraid Mr Bisley and his colleagues got it all,” said Jack regretfully. “Bastards.”

“You mean you ain’t got nothing?” demanded Nate. “What you going to eat with, then, Shaftoe? An’ what’s to stop us taking you to Tangiers?”

“To, er… where?” Delightful though the prospect of a North Africkan jaunt might be, it seemed more probable that Nate was referring to something else.

“Tangiers,” hissed the cadaver, and he crept forward, putting out a grimy-clawed hand and stroking the arm of Jack’s coat. “Down, an’ down, an’ down in the dark to Tangiers. Down to the lowest place, where justice b’longs to us, where the Ordin’ry’s men won’t never go. Let’s take ‘im, Nate. Let’s take ‘im down, and take his fine coat an’ his pretty weskit, let’s take it all, all an’ everything. Let’s… let’s take ‘im.”

The murmur that rose around them was disturbingly approbatory. Tangiers was clearly _not_ a good option for Jack.

“Well, that’s one idea,” said Jack, “but it must be awfully problematic to convert used undergarments to currency, and mine really are _very_ used. When I said I din’t have any money left, I wasn’t being, you know, completely _literal_.” He ripped open his coat’s final hidden stash—rather awkwardly, since it was cunningly sewn into the lining of the armpit—and handed several shillings over to Nate.

And then, because he was angry, and jittery, and more than a little nervous, he grabbed the pawing skeleton by the neck with both hands and jammed his thumbs against the man’s windpipe, pressing hard enough to stop his wheezing breath; and, ignoring the other men’s cries and the kicks to his shins and the dirty nails digging into his wrists, he spat, “And don’t you ever touch me again, you nasty little fucker.”

He threw the gasping, choking man to the floor and wiped his palms down the front of his coat. “Mr Kincaid?” he said, holding out his elbow as if off for a promenade with some fine gent. “Shall we?”

 

 

 

As Jack’d hoped, the Black Dogge was high on Nate Kincaid’s list of Newgate Sights, especially when he was accompanied by a new prisoner who might still have unknown reserves of coin. The pub was dark and cramped and astonishingly noisy; the prices were some way beyond usurious. Jack was forced to break into the false heel of his boot, and was most dismayed at the exchange rate offered for perfectly good _pesos de ocho_.

“Full of surprises, ain’t you, Shaftoe?” said Nate Kincaid, settling into a seat and putting his legs up on another, effectively trapping Jack in a corner.

Jack’s belly turned at the sound of Jack Shaftoe’s name. A roily mix of anger and frustration and the ever-present flash of lust. Damn the man. Surely it was only polite to advise your partner in crime (not to mention your partner in bed) of the more serious things that you were in danger of being arrested for in any given jurisdiction.

On the other hand, Jack didn’t want to damn him too much, since he was clearly Jack’s best hope of getting out of here. Though maybe not, given that if he turned up, he might be identified as the real Jack Shaftoe, and then…

Be calm, Jack told himself. You just need thinking time. You can get out of this one. Yes. You’ll find a way out, or Shaftoe’ll find a way in. Just need time.

“Din’t think you’d go fer Crabbe’s throat like that, neither.”

“I’m nastier ‘n I look. Anyway. Cheers,” Jack said, and grinned as he raised his tankard.

Nate Kincaid glared at him. “I’m beginning to think there’s summat wrong wi’ you,” he growled.

“You are?”

“I am. You don’t seem to realise, Shaftoe, exactly what your fuckin’ situation is. You’re in Newgate. With _me_. And you’re _mine_.”

“There, it ain’t all bad then; I should hate to be in Newgate without any mates at all.”

“I’m not your fuckin’ mate, you fool.” And Nate Kincaid leaned close, very close, close enough that even in the flickery dim light of the Black Dogge Jack could see every hair and pore and scar and the dirt and sweat accumulated upon them. “I’m your fuckin’ _master_.”

And he smiled, a broken smile of scar and threat; leaned closer still; and licked Jack’s cheek, wetly, foully. His stenchful breath gusted hotly in Jack’s face as he said, low, “I think you’re going to make me very very happy, Jack Shaftoe. Either that, or you’ll be beggin’ me to smash your skull wi’ that ball o’ yourn to stop the pain.”

“Oh, save it: there ain’t any call to waste good threat’ning on me, Nate,” said Jack, clenching his fists to stop them from wiping the spittle off his face. “Whatever you may think, I’m no fool. I can see an opportunity for collaboration when I see one. I keep you happy; you watch my back an’ keep me ‘live. ‘S called teamwork.”

Nate sat back. “Well. You’re a fast learner, I’ll give you that.”

“That I am,” said Jack.

“Drink up then; drink up, an’ I’ll take you someplace where you an’ your arse can make me happy.”

“What? Oh no, no, no, Nate!” Jack shook his head, and grinned as Nate’s face turned thundery. “I’d be robbing you if I did that. Not holding up my end of the deal at all. Nah, mate, these things have to be done properly.”

“If you say no to me one more time, you sneaky little turd—”

Jack held up a placating hand. “Listen. Listen. Look at me. Do I look like I know what I’m doing, when it comes to making a fellow happy?”

Nate stared, and licked his lips. “You certainly fuckin’ do.”

“Why thank you. And you’re right. I do know what I’m doing. An’ I know that one of the very… very… best ways to do it is to take it slow.”

“I don’t—”

Jack put his hand on Nate’s leg, where a hole in his trowsers revealed a blackly hairy knee, and slipped his fingertips under the fabric. Nate’s nostrils flared.

“S’nice, bein’ touched, eh?” murmured Jack. “An’ yet, Nate, once we’ve done the deed, my hand on your leg’ll lose most all its power, won’t it? D’you want to waste all those tasty first times? Or…” He licked his lips, and looked up at the monster, all sly and whorish from beneath his lashes. “Or d’you want to suck the marrow out of ‘em, every one, ‘fore you move on to the next… bone?”

Nate considered this for a long time. Jack slid his fingers further in, manfully ignoring the pins-and-needles sensation of fleas hopping against his fingertips. “Bit… by… bit,” he whispered.

Nate smiled, slowly, revealing things that Jack fervently wished he hadn’t. “Alright. We’ll try it your way,” he said at last. “But if I don’t like it…”

“Goes without saying,” said Jack, to ensure that it would, because some things he really didn’t need to hear. He raised his tankard. “To a mutually beneficial arrangement, Mr Kincaid.”

_I’ll buy time while we figure this out, Jack Shaftoe. But let’s hope the price doesn’t rise too high, eh?_   



	40. European Physick, Chapter Forty

  
  
London Town had been riotous enough in broad daylight, when Joe'd been sober: now a myriad lamps and torches danced, redoubled, split and combined like St Elmo's Fire as Joe stumbled and reeled, supported by -- supporting -- Jamie Martingale, through the city's streets. The cobbles were slippery with rain, and Joe was only saved from the malodorous gutter by Martingale's strong arm and superior weight. Up ahead -- further ahead each time Joe looked -- strode John Burton and Jack Shaftoe, arguing: Djagdao'd dropped back a little to walk beside Mick Picken, and from time to time Joe saw the pale blur of a face as one man or the other glanced back to see if Joe and Jamie were still with them.

Bootstrap and his boy'd gone off with Mr Shaftoe's brother. "You'll be needing the space," he'd said to Shaftoe, "with all of 'em come up from the _Pearl_. An' it's best that Bob and I handle the business with the Captain: you're a wanted man, Jack Shaftoe. You better lie low."

Shaftoe'd protested, of course, but only half-heartedly: and then Mistress Eliza had barged in, demanding to be told every step of the plan they were hatching. She hadn't seemed any too keen on helping them, but Mr Shaftoe'd extemporised, articulately and at considerable length, upon the subject of Volition, and its opposite, Compulsion. Joe'd been amazed to hear that this fine, richly-dressed lady, with her fine house and her snooty looks, had once (and not so very long ago) been a slave ("a _hareem_ slave," Jamie'd whispered, leering: "bet she knows some tricks, eh?") in distant Barbary.

"So, Madame," Shaftoe'd said, "having known the yoke of slavery so very intimately, you would nevertheless doom another to an equal (though different) abrogation of choice: to false imprisonment, with all its commensurate punishments and inconveniences, and the prospect of a undeserved and unnecessarily public death at the end of it."

"Undeserved?" Mistress Eliza had said, arching her eyebrows like an actress. "But Captain Sparrow is, by his own admission, a Pirate; I cannot believe that he has led an innocent life. Why, you yourself have intimated --"

"Never mind what I've intimated," Shaftoe'd snapped. (Martingale'd nudged Joe, and giggled.) "The point is, Jack Sparrow's locked up in Newgate -- taken in my place, by mistake or malevolence -- for crimes that John Nevison invented out of thin air. And it ain't right, or just, or ethical: and in those respects, if none other, it's not a million miles from the slavery you claim to abhor."

"I assure you, Mr Shaftoe," began Mistress Eliza with equal heat: then, visibly reining in her temper, she said, "Well, you'll do as you see fit whether or not I aid you: and I'll help you only inasfar as it contravenes no laws."

"All I ask," replied Jack Shaftoe, with admirable control, "is that you keep this ... this miscreant safely locked away." He nudged Nevison with the toe of his boot, and the highwayman groaned. "Your fellow Moggs shouldn't have any difficulty in restraining him, if need be: is there a, a cellar, or a strongroom, where he might be secured?"

"What will you do with him?" Eliza had enquired coolly.

Joe, swigging rum and watching Jack Shaftoe -- the man drew the eye like a lanthorn on deck at night -- saw Shaftoe look at Bootstrap. Whatever he saw in the other's gaze plainly matched his own thoughts, though he didn't speak them: just said, "That'll depend, Mistress. On whether we can get Jack Sparrow out of Newgate in one piece."

From that point on, the conversation -- and Joe's memory of the evening -- had disintegrated into bright, tiny fragments. Mistress Eliza's manservant hooking his hands under Nevison's armpits and hauling him backwards out of the room, like a porter at the meat-market. Jack Shaftoe calling for rum, and raising a glass to "Jack Sparrow, and his continued health and good cheer" -- a toast the company echoed heartily. Jamie Martingale huddled in a corner with Burton's mate Djagdao, looking as sick and miserable as Joe'd ever seen him. Bootstrap saying to Joe, "This 'ere's Bob Shaftoe, Jack's brother," and Joe nodding respectfully, because though it was obvious the two of 'em were kin, Joe rather thought from Bob's expression that he wasn't especially pleased at that relationship. Two small, tow-headed lads ("the Shaftoe boys," growled Bootstrap, looking around nervously for his own dark-haired spawn) weaving between the grown-ups' legs, faces wearing identical expressions of determination, until they'd reached a dark-skinned maid who stood quietly at the back of the parlour, mouth pinched with disapproval. Whatever they asked her, it earnt them an indignant look and a clip round the ear.

The night air, thick with city smells, was going to Joe's head in a way that the rum, beer and brandy had not: he was drunker than he could ever remember being on board ship. Yet not too drunk to stand; not too drunk to stare around him: not too drunk to listen to Burton and Shaftoe, whose voices carried clearly in the intoxicating air.

"I don't like it," Burton was saying. "What if your brother's plan don't work?"

"It'll work," said Shaftoe truculently. "Respected military type, is Bob. Plenty as'll swear he's who he says he is: great men, some of 'em. That John Churchill who Eliza's sweet on, he used to be our commanding officer. Bob's, I mean."

"Surely you was never a soldier, Mr Shaftoe!"

"As a matter of fact," said Shaftoe, "I --"

Perhaps Joe, astounded by this latest revelation, was not concentrating quite as hard as he might've been on holding himself and Martingale upright: at any rate, the next thing he knew he was on his knees on the cobbles, swearing, with Martingale's weight pinning him in place, and Martingale himself giggling like an idiot.

Picken and Shaftoe, between them, got Joe to his feet (his knees sore and surely bloody under his thin threadbare trews) and Martingale more or less upright, freed from the necessity of putting one foot before the other by the supporting shoulders of Burton and Djagdao.

"C'mon, mate," said Shaftoe. He must've had near as much to drink as any of 'em; he'd been knocking it back like there was no tomorrow, once Nevison'd been put away and his brother's party had made their farewells. But there he was, steady on his feet, clear-spoken, and mightily amused by Joe's downfall. "C'mon," said Shaftoe again, offering him an arm. "We're nearly there, Joe: 'tis just 'round this next corner, here."

"Good," said Joe, who was beginning to think he might like another drink to dull the throbbing of his knees.

There were other sources of distraction, though. "Mr Shaftoe?" he said hesitantly.

"Aye?"

"That bloke, the one you beat up: who was 'e? What's he got 'gainst you, 'gainst the Captain?"

Shaftoe sighed. "Long story," he said, "but what it boils down to, mate, is jealousy."

"Oh," said Joe. "What, you an' him were ...?"

Shaftoe gave a surprised bark of laughter. "Christ, no," he said. "No, Mr Henry: it's not _that_ he's jealous of, but my ... our freedom, I s'pose, an' our wealth. Though I have to say," his voice lowered to a growl, "he ain't too fond of Jack Sparrow. Thinks he's odd and unnatural."

Joe had no idea what he could say in answer, but could not help his mouth from trying to say it anyway. "Well, he is -- not in a bad way, but there ain't -- I mean t'say -- Captain Sparrow, there ain't any who's his match, is there? Is there?"

"There ain't," agreed Shaftoe, and Joe could hear the smile in his voice. "An', God willing, he'll come back to us as odd and unnatural as ever."

 

There were three rooms above the cookshop. Burton and Djagdao, first up the stairs, made for the middle room: Martingale stopped with his foot on the second-to-last step, scowling.

"Never mind, mate," said Shaftoe. "Take the cubby-hole: it ain't so bad, is it? Mr Henry, you all right bunking down with Mr Martingale? Or d'you want to come in with me, and let Mick here have the pleasure?"

"I --" began Joe.

"I don't want to sleep in there," said Martingale mutinously. "I want --"

"I know what you want," said Jack Shaftoe, holding Martingale's gaze. "But what you need right now, Jamie, is sleep. Sleep in your own bed, right?" And he smiled, oddly hesitant, and clasped Martingale's shoulder for a moment.

Martingale was reeling, steadying himself against the wall. "C'mon, mate," said Joe, opening the door one-handed, picking up the lanthorn and nudging his wrecked shipmate into the tiny room. "Jus' lie down, right?"

"Thankee," said Martingale thickly. He collapsed onto the mattress as though his legs'd been knocked from under him, and rolled over.

"What was all that about?" said Joe softly. "Mr Shaftoe? What he said?"

"Oh," said Jamie, and then added something else, his drink-slurred words almost entirely muffled by the pillow. A shame, really, 'cause Joe could've sworn that he'd said something interesting.

"Did you say you went to Mr Shaftoe's bed?" said Joe softly.

Martingale's head moved. It might've been a nod.

"Why?" said Joe, aghast, before he could stop to think of the most obvious reason. He blushed, but Jamie wasn't looking.

"Din't want to be 'lone," said Martingale.

All the doubt and daring, the admiration and trepidation in Joe's heart resolved itself into a pure and selfless pity. "I know it, mate," he said, kneeling down beside the dirty mattress. "I know what it's like, when the bed's empty an' it shouldn't be. But you ain't alone now."

* * *

As bedmates went, Mick Picken wasn't the worst Jack Shaftoe'd ever had. He'd come to bed in his clothes, the night being chilly and Jack himself, by way of example, having removed nothing but his boots and his coat. Picken kept to his side of the mattress, lying on his side with his back to Jack. He did not sprawl, or snore, or chatter. He could scarcely have been more different from Jack Sparrow.

Jack lay stiff-backed as a plank of wood, cordially and impersonally wishing Picken to the uttermost reaches of hell. It'd been bad enough the last two nights, lying here alone, thinking Sparrow'd run back to his beloved ship with never a word (and, when he'd talked himself out of that one, fearing -- he could admit it now, albeit only to himself -- that some peril'd _befallen_ Jack Sparrow). Jack'd become accustomed to falling asleep with his limbs tangled with Sparrow's, waking with Sparrow's delicious warmth pressed against him -- not to mention those specific parts of their anatomies that regularly awoke before their conscious minds. Oh, how Jack missed the sticky nudge of Sparrow's swelling prick against his thigh! The glitter of his smile, the musk-and-spice smell of his sweat, the low growl of his voice, the taste of his sleep-stale mouth as he bestowed the first kiss of the --

_Don't think about it_ , Jack told himself. _Don't brood on what you've lost. He'll be back._

Yet somehow, despite all the accidents he'd feared, it was vastly worse to _know_ what fate'd befallen Jack Sparrow. Perhaps it was the sheer malice of Nevison's treachery ( _all meant for **you** , JacketyJack!_ the Imp reminded him bootlessly), that'd sent Sparrow to Newgate Gaol, and would've sent him down the Oxford Road to Tyburn if Jack hadn't chanced on Nevison in that filthy pub this evening.

His knuckles stung with the memory of their impact against John Nevison's jaw. Jack wished he'd hit the bastard harder, more. Oh, he'd gone along with Mistress Eliza's high-minded notions, but only because it suited him, for now, to have Nevison locked away safely, unable to perpetrate any more mischief. When ( _when_ ) they'd retrieved Jack Sparrow, Jack'd think of a suitable punishment for the man who'd stolen him away. At present, he was very much inclined to punishment of the _terminal_ kind.

Please God let that retrieval, that extraction, be quick.

Bob'd sounded pretty confident about his chances of springing Sparrow: but they'd nothing save Nevison's word (not worth the lungful of air he'd taken to speak it) that Sparrow was even alive, let alone well, in Newgate's dank and dangerous confines. Not that Jack doubted for one moment that Sparrow could look after himself, be the company never so vile. He was quick, and sharp, and stronger than he looked.

Thinking of what might've befallen Sparrow at the hands of the other inmates was a different kind of torture. Jack, who'd spent a night or two in Newgate prior to receiving his brand, could not help but recall some of the cruelties he'd seen enacted there: he'd been fortunate enough to be locked up with a gang of his friends, and they'd stuck together, but Sparrow was alone in there. _Alone and waiting for you, Jack-alone!_ needled the Imp. _Waitin' for you to come and break him out!_

_Maybe he thinks I've run off and left him,_ thought Jack bitterly. _Maybe he realises I ain't got a clue about where he is._

Thinking of Jack Sparrow's blithe brightness, of his constant motion and his odd beauty, brought memories of the other night to the surface of Jack's mind. He groaned aloud at the memory of Sparrow twisting under his hands, the wicked dark gleaming memory of that little piece of play-acting they'd indulged in. Sparrow up 'gainst the wall, over there, wriggling in Jack's gentle hold: Sparrow curving back against him, dragging Jack's hand down to the promising hard heat in his breeches.

That hand crept down now, under the blankets, to Jack's own swelling, heavy prick -- two days without Jack Sparrow, and he _ached_ \-- but bloody Picken chose that moment to roll over, sighing.

"You a'right, Shaftoe?"

"Fine," said Jack, between clenched teeth. He wanted to punch the man: might actually roll over and throttle him if he said another word to drive the lingering vision of Jack Sparrow from Jack's mind. "Thought I heard a noise," he said gruffly. "Don't mind me, I'll be back."

"Right," said Picken sleepily. "Yell if you need a hand."

_I need a hand, all right,_ thought Jack as he slid from the bed, still half-hard. _Jack Sparrow's hand_. The boards were cold and splintery beneath his bare feet, and the door creaked like a mast in a gale when he opened it. Had to get out, though: couldn't lie in that bed, unsleeping, next to bloody Mick Picken, and not make himself miserable with thoughts of Sparrow.

He'd been lying about the sound he'd heard, but out here on the landing he _could_ hear something: a muffled, rhythmic, human sound, and the murmur of a voice. Jack moved as silently as he could towards the room from whence the noises emanated: Jamie Martingale's room, of course, and Jack was pretty sure he knew what the little harlot was up to. (Cursed his prick for twitching at the thought, at the mental picture of bursting in on Martingale as he corrupted young Joe: of making him kneel, and ...)

He pressed his ear against the door, listening: for if Joe weren't willing, then Jack would most certainly interrupt 'em. The ragged gasping did not falter. They hadn't heard him. Making too much racket, probably. And with the earth barely settled on poor Will's grave! Bad enough he'd tried his games with Jack himself, the other night, but --

But it was Joe, murmuring, and he didn't sound in need of rescue. "Jamie, you did what you could, mate," he was saying. And, "There ain't no shame in mourning your friend."

Jack Shaftoe stood there in the dark, sick at heart, and lonely as he'd ever been: and though Jack Sparrow lived, yet Jack mourned his absence keen as any death.


	41. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Forty-One

  


“Well, look who it ain’t. Mr Jack Shaftoe!”

Jack was finding this to be a terribly efficient pseudonym, seeing as how it arrested his attention just as reliably as his own (current) name ever did. Still, he’d rather not have had his attention arrested by that particular voice, which belonged to the cadaverous and evil-minded Jeremiah Crabbe; who—possibly as a result of Jack’s attempting to strangle him at their first meeting, not to mention publicly proclaiming him, what was it, oh yes, _a nasty little fucker_ —seemed to have taken a definite dislike to him.

Jack turned just in time to be unceremoniously bundled up against the wall, not by Crabbe himself, but by two other, notably larger gentlemen.

“Not with your mate?” said Crabbe, reaching out and fingering a gold charm in Jack’s hair.

“Well, you know. We ain’t joined at the hip, or anything.” As a matter of fact, Jack was down here in the further reaches of the gaol actively avoiding his ‘mate’. But that was definitely not a datum that should be widely shared.

Jack’s shoulders were pinned hard against the cold stone by Crabbe’s mates. Crabbe, smiling, pulled out a knife. “P’rhaps you oughter be. Might be safer for you.”

Oh. Fuck.

“Whatever it is that you’re after,” Jack said, slimily, “I’m sure you’d have better success if you just _asked_.”

“Maybe I don’t want ter be given it. Maybe the _takin’_ of it’s part of what I’m after.”

“Hmm. Well. In that case, I s’pose it’ll be a lot more satisfying for you if I’m making it more of a challenge,” said Jack, and without further ado he tossed his iron ball onto Crabbe’s foot, while simultaneously kicking him in the bollocks as hard as ever he could.

The man froze for a second, and then let out a horrible cry: Jack reveled in a disappointingly short-lived moment of satisfaction before being simultaneously punched in the jaw and the belly by the two who were holding him.

He managed to inflict a reasonable amount of damage before he went down; but it was only enough to salvage his pride, and nowhere near enough to actually win. They were big, and they were brutal: it was only minutes before he was on the chill and dirty stone floor, and curling up to protect his innards from their boots.

Crabbe had found his voice again, and howled, “You fucking bastard, Shaftoe, you’ll pay for that! They’ll be taking Mr Jack fucking Shaftoe out of here in pieces, in tiny-fucking-painted-sodomite-bastard-fucking _pieces_ , and you’ll never—”

Jack did not get to find out what he’d never do. With a roar like a bull, Nate Kincaid lurched around the corner and charged Jack’s attackers.

Much as he was inclined to beat the shit out of them himself, Jack observed that Nate was doing a very good job of it on his own, and confined his role in the fracas to grabbing the knife out of Crabbe’s surprised hand.

Nate managed to headbutt one of them into unconsciousness while simultaneously strangling the other into a similar state. It really was rather impressive. Crabbe obviously found it so, too: he was gone by the time his mates slumped meatily to the floor.

Jack leant back against the wall, pressing his ribs, trying to ascertain whether one was broken. No, he didn’t think so: it hurt like fuck, but wasn’t any worse when he breathed in. “Thanks,” he said.

Nate wiped a smear of blood from his forehead, and scowled. “I’m getting fucking sick of this,” he declared.

“What? But mate, you’re so _good_ at it.”

“That ain’t what I’m sick of.” Nate slammed a palm into the wall, beside Jack’s face, and leaned menacingly forward, as he twisted Crabbe’s knife out of Jack’s hand (curses). “I’m sick of you runnin’ off an’ hiding. I’m sick of you not deliverin’. That’s what I’m sick of.”

“Not delivering?” Jack pulled a face of great indignation. “I object to that. That ain’t what you said last night. Or should I say _howled_.”

“Oh, it were a good enough story. You’re a fine tease, Shaftoe. But I’ve had enough of my own bloody hand.”

“That ain’t true neither, Nate. Surely you ain’t forgot my hand… here?” And Jack, striving hard for impassivity, tugged at Nate Kincaid’s shirtlaces and slid his hand inside, across thick swirls of hair, sticky with sweat.

“Fuck that,” said Nate. “I want more. And I aim to get it.”

“’Course you will. Promised you, didn’t I?”

“I aim to get it _today_.”

“Oh. Well. Thing is, see, I’m a bit busy with—”

“I paid good money for this,” said Nate, and he brandished a heavy key. “For a room. An’ you’re comin’ there with me, right fuckin’ now; an’ you’re payin’ me back for savin’ your pretty arse.”

*

Jamie’s head thudded dully; his mouth was furry and foul. The room, when he managed to open his bleary eyes, was full of pale morning sunshine, but chill enough that he could see his breath.

He wasn’t cold, though. There was a warm body beside him, curled against his spine.

It confused him for a moment, pulled him back into a time that wasn’t now. Will—no, Will was gone. Gone and buried. This was… this was Joe Henry. Nothing like Will. Blonde, where Will was dark; gangly, clumsy still, as if he did not know where his limbs ended, where Will was all controlled muscle; full of sunny smiles, where Will’d kept his hid, and shewn them only to a special few.

Jamie blinked, his eyes sore and dry, and remembered why they felt that way. Remembered crying like a child, in the night, and Joe holding him in his thin, wiry arms, shushing him and comforting him and in the end crying with him. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids: they felt hot.

“Jamie? You ‘wake?” Joe’s voice was a sleepy murmur. His arm was still over Jamie’s waist, and he didn’t move it.

“Yeah.”

“You a’right?”

“Yeah. I’m alright.” He patted Joe’s hand, where it hung all relaxed against Jamie’s belly, and Joe grunted.

“Joe? Thanks. For last night. For… you know.”

Joe shrugged. “Like I told you… I know what it’s like.”

Jamie was silent, and Joe made a little apologetic noise. “I mean, no, ‘course I don’t know what it’s like, what you’ve lost, I don’t know _that_ ; I just, well, the empty bed, an’ the cold, an’ not wanting to be all on your own, I do know ‘bout that. I din’t mean—”

“Shh, ‘s’alright, mate, I know.”

“It’s hard. It makes you feel strange.”

“Aye.”

“Makes you do strange things,” said Joe, and now Jamie could hear an edge of laughter in his voice.

“Aye?”

“Aye. Like going to Jack Shaftoe’s bed i’the small hours.”

Jamie groaned, and though Joe held back his laugh, Jamie could feel it in the muscles of his stomach, tensing against Jamie’s back.

“Don’t tell,” he begged.

“’Course not.”

“Ta.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Joe said, in a rush as though he oughtn’t (and he definitely oughtn’t), “What happened, then, when you did it? What’s he, what’s he _like_ , Jamie? An’ what’s going to happen, what’s Cap’n going to say when he gets back?”

Jamie bit his lip and ducked his head, wanting to smile. “He ain’t going to say a thing, Joe, an’ I don’t know what Jack Shaftoe’s like; ‘cause nothing happened. Nothing ‘cept me being pushed out of the bed an’ falling on my arse, and no-one’s going to say anything anyway, are they? Eh?”

“No. N-no, not me. But, Jamie?”

“Mmm?”

“He din’t really, did he? Push you out o’ the bed?”

“He surely did.”

Joe giggled. “Bet that ain’t what usually happens,” he said.

“What the devil’s that supposed to mean? Are you sayin’ I’m in the habit of climbing into other fellows’ beds, Joe Henry?” Jamie sat up—ooh, the air was chill on his bare chest—and twisted round to scowl down at Joe.

Who gazed up at him, flushing, and shook his tousled head. He was pink-cheeked and swollen-mouthed from sleep, his eyes still dark from it.

“No, Jamie, you’ve took it wrong. I din’t mean any such thing! I only meant…”

Joe trailed off, and swallowed, staring up at him; then sat up too, holding the blanket tight to his waist.

“I only meant,” he said fiercely, “that no-one, oh no-one, couldn’t want you in their bed, Jamie Martingale. No-one.”

Jamie stared at him, surprised in half a dozen different ways. Surprised at Joe’s vehemence; surprised at its implication. Surprised, quite deliciously surprised, to realise that—when had it happened?—Joe Henry, awkward lanky shy Joe Henry, was only a hair’s breadth away from turning into a rather fantastic looking young man; and when he frowned and blushed and clenched his jaw like that, the hair’s breadth was perfectly infinitesimal.

“Oh,” said Jamie. “Um. Ta.”

Joe ducked his head. “I mean it the best way, Jamie. I’m not bein’… bein’ funny.”

There was a moment, then, that could’ve become awkward. A tense silence, and any other time, Jamie was sure he’d’ve filled it with… well, with a touch, or a teasing suggestion. But the silence was broken by the sound of doors, and Jack Shaftoe’s voice, as he rapped upon theirs: “Up, you slug-a-beds, up! Downstairs, in five: we’re leaving this place!”

*

There was no reason to stay any longer, and plenty of reasons for leaving, as Jack outlined with admirable succinctness to his companions, down in the common-room, thus:

“I’ve obviously got to fuck off out of here, since we’ve been advertising my whereabouts so widely, and I can’t think of any reason why you lot wouldn’t want to do the same.”

“Too right,” said John Burton, rubbing a big hand over his yellowing jaw, and giving Djagdao a hard look. Jack _really_ wanted to know what’d gone on there. Fisticuffs, obviously. But what’d that led to, eh? Fighting stirred the blood something wicked. Could lead to all sorts of…

He flushed at his own imagination, and cleared his throat. Far too long, it was, that he’d been apart from Jack Sparrow; no wonder he was having wicked thoughts. Or perhaps, rather, it was too long that he’d been _with_ the man.

No. Never too long. A lifetime wouldn’t be enough.

“Back to the ship, then?” said Picken, through a mouthful of gruel.

Martingale looked up. He seemed better this morning; red-eyed still, but capable of smiling, and eating his share too. Young Joe must’ve been a good comfort. “I want to go back to Mistress Eliza’s,” he said, “and to the church; to give her my thanks, an’ Will my farewells.”

“Fair enough,” said Jack. “But no dallying, mind: you need t’be back and ready for when… for when the Captain returns.”

“So, your brother an’ Mr Turner…?” asked Burton, vaguely.

“Aye, they’ve a plan to get Jack. So it’s settled? Jamie, you’ll head to Coleman Street, an’ then on to Rochester; and the rest of you’ll head east directly?”

“Um,” said Joe Henry, all diffident. “If, if Jamie don’t mind, if he’d like some comp’ny, I’d go with him.” He gave Martingale a sideways glance, and shrugged, and stuck out his bottom lip as if he didn’t care one way or another. Martingale nodded, and smiled: “That’d be grand, Joe.”

“Excellent.” Jack tossed a purse, heavy with the cure’s takings, to Burton. “Will you settle up with our landlady, John? An’ take this lot back to the ship?”

Burton looked up, frowning. “Where’re you going, then, Jack?”

“Me? Oh, I’ve got things to take care of; things that have to be sorted, ‘fore I’m ready to quit the city. See you back at the _Pearl!_ ” said Jack, smiling widely to disguise the fact that he wasn’t answering the question, and he was up and out the door before they could stop him.

Not that anything could stop him. Not that there was any damn’d way in the world that Jack would just wander on back to the _Black Pearl_ , without her Captain. (Oh, her glorious Captain, with his impossibly delicious corpus, his quick and cunning wit, and his filthy, odd, addictive mind… the lack of him was a sharp sour ache, deep in Jack’s belly.)

Besides: how could Jack leave this city, with the man who’d done this to Sparrow yet unpunished?

*

“Nate, that really ain’t necessary,” said Jack placatingly, as Nate Kincaid locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He tried not to be too obvious about scouting the place for possible weapons; it wasn’t hard, since there was virtually nothing in the room. A dirty mattress; a wobbly chair. A barred window; Nate’d paid good money alright, there was daylight and everything.

“You’re a slippery little shit. Don’t think I don’t know it,” said Nate. “Come here.” He sat himself down on the chair, which creaked alarmingly, and beckoned Jack over by the barred window. “Where I can _see_ you.”

“See me, eh? In the mood for _looking_ , are we?” said Jack, with a lewd wink and a hopeful heart. Stripping off was no great sacrifice, even if it was a bit cold. He could manage that. He sashayed over to the window.

“Fer starters,” growled Nate, thoroughly squashing Jack’s little bit of optimism.

“Starters. Righto. Yes. Absolutely. How about I take off my… coat?”

Nate grunted. Jack hung his coat on one of the spiked bars of the window, half covering it. If he had to do this, he’d really rather do it in darkness. He’d become almost accustomed, now, to Nate Kincaid’s disfigured face; but he doubted he’d be able to maintain such a neutral aspect when faced with Nate’s nether regions.

“What’re you doing? Don’t do that. I can’t fuckin’ see you.”

“Just creating some _ambience_ , aren’t I?”

“Fuck that. Get on with it.”

“Nate, Nate, Nate, you’re always in such a rush.” But Jack didn’t fancy Nate taking matters into his own hands. He sighed, and undid his belt buckle; began to untie his sash.

Nate licked his lips, wetly.

Jack stared very hard out the window, in hopes of never ever seeing that happen ever again. Stared down at the noisy, bustling street below, at the throng of Londoners carrying on their business just as if the horrors of Newgate Gaol were not looming over them. Somewhere out there, Jack Shaftoe was wondering what the fuck had happened to him. Angrier than a cut snake, probably.

A blond head, weaving through the crowd, caught his eye. A blond head, a tall carriage, a sure stride…

“Get yer shirt off, Shaftoe. Come on, I want some skin.”

The blond man looked up, sunlight bright on his frowning face, and Jack’s heart twisted and leapt. It was him. It was _him_. He was _here_.

“Jack!” he shouted, grabbing at the bars, shaking them. “Jack Shaftoe! It’s me! I’m up here!”

“Oi!” Nate roared. “Could you pay a little fucking _attention_ , is that too much to ask?”

“Sorry, sorry, be right with you, but there’s a fellow down there, a friend, a—”

Too late. Shaftoe looked down, melted away into the crowd on the shadowed side of the street. Nate Kincaid stood up, so fast that he knocked the chair over behind him.

“I’ve had fucking enough of this,” he spat. “You ain’t about to give me what I want—what you promised me—so fuck you. I’m going to take it.” And he grabbed Jack’s weskit and yanked it open, buttons popping, fabric rending.

“What the devil did you do that for?” cried Jack. “That was a perfectly good—”

Nate grabbed a handful of Jack’s hair; his other hand was busily undoing his own breeches. “Shut up. Shut the _fuck_ up, an’ get down on your knees.”

Following the direction of his hair, Jack did indeed kneel; knelt, and cogitated furiously. There was the iron ball, but Nate had one too. There was the key, but he’d have to get to the door, and through it, and lock Nate inside, and how could he distract Nate for long enough to do that? And that knife was somewhere; but if he picked a fight now, how much longer would he last in Newgate? If he couldn’t kill Nate Kincaid straight off, he was a dead man. And Shaftoe was here. Right here. Surely Jack didn’t need long. Surely he only needed, what, half an hour?

“Nate—ow, mate, that hurts—”

“M’not your bloody mate. Open your fuckin’ mouth.”

“Yes… I told you, din’t I, I will…” Jack reached up, and in, and _don’t think about it, don’t think about it_ took hold of Nate’s thick, hot prick. Nate groaned. Jack stroked him roughly; looked up at him.

“Take off your shirt, Nate.”

“Why?”

“Please. Give me something I want, Nate, an’ I’ll… I’ll give you something you want.” Jack rubbed his thumb gently over Nate’s cockhead.

“What d—d’you m—ahhh—mean, something you want?”

“Oh, mate… d’you think I could _not_ want to see you, to touch you, to feel you? A fine great thing like you, after all you’ve done for me?”

“Fuck—fuckin’ liar.”

“D’you think I can’t see past them scars? See what’s there?” They tasted rancid in his mouth, these lies, but at least they were better than the (pulsing, purpled, weeping) alternative; and at least he was being allowed to speak, now. “Take it off,” he whispered. _Take it off, take it all off; an’ then I’ll be able to get to your pockets, then I’ll have something to tie you with, then—then—then—well, then Jack Shaftoe’ll come, or I’ll think of something, or—_

Voices in the passageway outside.

“Which one? This one?”

“’S’right, this one ‘ere.”

Jack pretended to ignore them, and gripped Nate with a vigorous, albeit entirely fraudulent, enthusiasm.

“You sure Shaftoe’ll be with ‘im?”

Laughter. “Bet your fuckin’ life ‘e will. Ol’ Nate’s fair busting out of his breeches for the bastard.”

“Come on, Nate… take off your—mff!” Nate clamped his hand over Jack’s mouth; then, as someone banged on the door, he shoved Jack away.

“Oi, Shaftoe,” shouted one of the gaolers, and there was the metallic sound of a key in the lock. “You in there?”

“Er… yes,” said Jack, trying hard not to sound too gleeful at the interruption.

“Surprise,” said Bisley, as he opened the door and grinned at Jack, still on his knees in front of the disheveled, but thankfully covered-up, Nate. “There’s another Mr Shaftoe here to see you.”


	42. European Physick, Chapter Forty-Two

  
  
Dear Christ in Heaven, but Jack's odd friend didn't look one whit better for his stay in London's most notorious gaol. The whorish paint around his eyes was more or less gone, but his cheekbone was puffing up nicely where it'd encountered somebody's fist. His weskit hung off him, ripped and buttonless: his coat, dangling from the iron grating that covered the window, looked as though someone'd made a determined effort to reduce it to its constituent swatches of cloth. The sash at his waist was loose: his belt, unbuckled.

 

 

The bloke with Sparrow was a different kettle of fish. Hulking, scowling (which did nothing to improve his battered phiz), and fumbling with his own breeches. Oh, 'twas plain to see what'd been transpiring in this filthy, stenchful room, mere moments before Bob's arrival.

 

 

Though Sparrow looked mightily pleased to see 'em, for a fellow who'd been interrupted in the act. He took a step t'wards them, and nearly toppled as the iron ball chained to his ankle stayed where it was.

 

 

"You all right, Captain?" said Bill Turner from behind Bob.

 

 

"Improving by the moment," said Sparrow. "Do I take it --"

 

 

"Shut your gob, Shaftoe," snarled the gaoler. "Or I'll --"

 

 

"Mr Bisley," said Bob, in the loud flat voice that made new recruits tremble in their clogs. "Since the prisoner is indubitably _not_ Mr Jack Shaftoe, formerly of Wapping, I can only assume that you're addressing me: and I will not shut my gob -- though _you'd_ do best to follow that advice."

 

 

Bisley, all pale, shut his gob. Bob glared at Sparrow, who was applauding. "I take it," he said to Bob, "that you're aware of the incident of mistaken identity that's been perpetrated here. That's to say: for some reason these gentlemen seem to believe I'm your ... brother." Sparrow's eyes were wide and guileless. "Unaccountable, really."

 

 

"That it is," said Bob. "Disgrace to the name, you'd be." He grinned as he said it, and Sparrow grinned too, or at any rate showed his teeth. (Bob idly wondered how much they'd be worth, detached from his mouth.)

 

 

"And who might the ... prisoner be, then?" said Bisley sullenly.

 

 

"Captain Jack Sparrow," said Sparrow, "as I believe I've mentioned before."

 

 

The big man's eyeball swivelled. "Haven't you just?" he said.

 

 

"Nate," said Sparrow. "I'd like to say it's been a pleasure: but that would be a terrible lie. Hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in this fine establishment, don't spend all your -- or rather, my -- money in the Black Dogge, and do give Crabbe my very best regards."

 

 

"What you on about?" said Nate. He glared, cyclopean, at Bisley. "Once 'e's in, 'e's in, eh?"

 

 

"I'd rather assumed," said Sparrow, frowning, "that your visit, gents, was some form of _deliverance_."

 

 

"Mr Bisley," said Bob, "I assume there's some tedious formalities to conduct before we remove the prisoner from your governance. Perhaps we could expedite them?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was some time before they were ushered into the Keeper's House. Bob Shaftoe, stiff in his faded red soldier's coat, seemed disinclined to come any closer to Jack Sparrow than necessary. Perhaps it was the lice, which Bootstrap Bill could see quite clearly in his captain's hair. Or the ominous, monotonous clank of the shackle on Sparrow's ankle as the hefty iron ball rolled to and fro on the uneven flagstones. Or perhaps something only very slightly less tangible: the air of dishevelled debauchery that Sparrow emanated like breath.

 

 

"Your captain's an odd sort," Bob Shaftoe'd said to Bill, as they were walking up Cheapside towards Newgate. "An' there's some right funny fellows in your crew, present company excepted of course. Must be a trial, on a long voyage."

 

 

Bill'd shrugged. "Not really," he'd said. "Jack's a fine fellow when you get to know him. Oh, stranger'n most: but a good captain, an' a good pirate. Your brother din't take to him, not at first. But he warmed to him once ... well."

 

 

"Disgusting," Bob had said thinly.

 

 

Bootstrap had a notion he should've argued that point more vociferously. It was clear enough what Bob'd decided about his brother and Jack Sparrow, and it wasn't as though he was, in any major respect, _wrong_ : clear, too, that he was disturbed (to put it mildly) by the thought of his brother Jack engaging in such practices. But Bill couldn't be bothered to construct any elaborate pretence, not on Jack Shaftoe's behalf: and 'sides, it wasn't as though they were staying in London any longer than it took to break Sparrow out of Newgate and return him to his ship.

 

 

Bloody London, anyway. Full of people, and noise, and mud, and rain. It was a sight warmer than it'd been, but not what Bill'd call comfortable. How did Kitty stand it? Was Will going to grow up amphibious?

 

 

He fidgetted on the hard wooden bench -- surely it didn't take this long to find the bloody Keeper? -- and stole a glance at his captain. He'd done the decent thing and proffered his flask: Sparrow was making short work of it, and it'd brought a flush to his face.

 

 

"You eaten anything?" said Bill.

 

 

Sparrow gave him an owlish look, and shook his head. "Not since ..." He tilted the flask and drank again.

 

 

Bill hissed in sympathy. No wonder Sparrow looked so rough. He needed sunlight, and the sea, and the open deck of his beloved _Pearl_ : not this noisome, gloomy antechamber, with the insane shrieks and babbles of the prisoners filtering through the high, unglazed window.

 

 

Finally! Here was the gaoler, sour-faced at the thought of losing a prisoner (though from the look of it he'd already extracted everything of value from Jack Sparrow's person), beckoning them into the inner sanctum of the Keeper of Newgate.

 

 

"Ah yes," said the Keeper, peering at them all from behind a solid-looking table. "Jack Shaftoe, wasn't it?"

 

 

"No, it was not," snapped Bob. "Is not." He took a step forward, looming impressively.

 

 

"And you, sir --"

 

 

"Sergeant Robert Shaftoe, of the Black Torrent Regiment," said Bob. "Brother of the aforementioned Jack, with whom I served under John Churchill. Perhaps you have heard of him. What do you say, sir? Are he and I related in any manner?" And he gestured at Sparrow, who was swaying gently at Bill's side.

 

 

Sparrow beamed at the Keeper. "Delighted," he said. "Charming establishment you have here: such very int'resting people one meets, in gaol."

 

 

"Shush," said Bob, with a roll of the eyes that bespoke considerable experience at quelling inconvenient levity. "As is surely plain, sir, we aren't kin. My poor brother was quite a different kind of man: tall, blond. Soldierly."

 

 

Sparrow sniffed.

 

 

"'Was', you say," said the Keeper querulously. "Do I collect that Mr Shaftoe, Mr _Jack_ Shaftoe, is deceased?"

 

 

Bob clutched his hat to his torso. "Yes, sir. The poor fellow ran mad after his wife's death." Had there been an emphasis on the word 'wife'? Jack Sparrow thought so, from the sour expression on his face. "Last seen in Dunquerque," said Bob sadly. "A frightful accident involving a barber-surgeon and a injury I ... shan't relate."

 

 

Sparrow made a choking noise. Bill clapped him resonantly on the shoulder.

 

 

"But I'm told that Mr -- that your brother has been seen on Fenchurch-Street, alive and well: why, I saw the handbill myself!"

 

 

"An imposter," said Bob thickly.

 

 

"Not this ... man?"

 

 

"Certainly not, sir," said Bootstrap respectfully, before Sparrow could open his mouth and start on about Shaftoe. "This is Captain Sparrow of the _Black Pearl_ , a merchantman out of Boston, on which I'm First Mate."

 

 

"The _Black Pearl_?" spoke up Bisley. "She in the Pool, then?"

 

 

"She's at Rochester," said Bill Turner. "We come in from Lisbon with ..." Christ, he couldn't remember what (if anything) they'd carried as cargo, this last leg of the journey.

 

 

"Port wine and Bibles," enunciated Jack Sparrow with exquisite care. "There's great comfort to be had from the good book, sir."

 

 

"Anyway," said Bill loudly, toeing the iron ball so that Sparrow's attention was abruptly diverted to the business of staying erect, "you may send to Rochester if you please. But this is Captain Jack Sparrow, I vow, and I know for a fact that he ain't committed any crimes in London Town, for we've sailed far from England the last few years." He paused, and summoned up a shamefaced look from the recesses of his memory. "Ask my wife if you don't believe me!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

The gentle rain falling from heaven was not especially warm, but it felt like bliss to Jack Sparrow: he walked with his head back and his mouth open, letting the fresh water chase the bilious tang of Newgate from his throat.

 

 

"Watch it," grumbled Bob, but his hand was on Jack's arm, steadying him.

 

 

"Right," said Jack. "So, gentlemen, where're we bound? And where's Jack?"

 

 

"Jack?" said Bill.

 

 

"Jack?" said Bob, in quite a different tone.

 

 

"Aye," said Jack. "I noticed him passing by as I gazed out of the window earlier." Best not to think on what he'd been _averting_ his gaze from. "Obviously he couldn't come in with you," he added, "being dead an' all. That was a fine tale you span, Bob: I c'n see you're your brother's ... brother."

 

 

"Never mind that," said Bob. "Jack's off on some other business: said he'd catch up with us later. Though I don't know where." He eyed Jack appraisingly, clearly unimpressed by what he saw. Jack scowled at him. A man's sartorial affairs were bound to take a turn for the worse, after a sojourn in Newgate.

 

 

"Bob," said Jack. "Sergeant Shaftoe, I sh'd say. Have to thank you for your inestimable services, retrieving me. ... Come to think of it, how _did_ you retrieve me?"

 

 

"Keep walking," said Bill. "No need to stop and chat. 'Twas that Nevison fellow, Jack: he'd a grudge against Jack Shaftoe, and must've paid out a pretty penny in bribes to have him locked away in Newgate. No idea how they mistook you for him."

 

 

"Me neither," said Jack, wide-eyed with sincerity. "Anyone could see we're two quite separate specimens. Not in the least alike." He wrinkled his nose at an unpleasant odour. Sniffed again. Was very much afraid that it emanated from his own person.

 

 

"Perhaps, gentlemen," he said, "you might conduct me to the nearest bagnio."

 

 

Bootstrap looked blank.

 

 

"Bath-house," explicated Jack. "Hummum. Temple of cleanliness. Or do you not have such establishments in this fine city?"

 

 

"Plenty of 'em," said Bob indignantly. "And before you ask, I've frequented them often enough. Why, when we were lads, Jack and I'd be in and out of every bathing-house on Long Acre. We ..." He coughed.

 

 

"Easy pickings, eh?" said Jack, just to make Bob scowl at having volunteered this confession of juvenile wrongdoing. "Is it far?"

 

 

"Depends what you're after, Captain Sparrow," said Bob, with an unpleasant leer. (Funny how his brother Jack could make the selfsame expression, on a very similar face, so much more appealing.) "Fancy a _girl_ or two, do you, to scrub your back?"

 

 

"Girls, mate? Take 'em or leave 'em. Ow," added Jack as Bill kicked him on his shackle-chafed ankle. "Me, I'm mostly int'rested in removing every revolting particle of Newgate filth."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack Shaftoe's initial plan of action was foiled by the remembrance of Jamie Martingale's agenda. Off to Mistress Eliza's, he'd said, and thence to poor Will's grave, with young Joe Henry to bear him company. Jack, then, must perforce skulk around, lurking in alleyways and cutting through churchyards, in order to avoid his shipmates.

 

 

Just off Cheapside, near Old Jewry, he found himself accosted by a gypsyish female, shrieking something about Jack's girl, and thrusting a bundle of bright cloth at him.

 

 

Jack made a show of looking around. "Girl?" he said. "No, and I'm not in the market for one either, thankee."

 

 

"For your girl!" shrilled the woman, shaking her bundle. "Pretty, ain't it?"

 

 

"I told you," began Jack, and then his eye was caught by the glitter of gold thread. "How much?" he said.

 

 

A quarter of an hour's hard bargaining later, the gypsy reduced to absolute penury and forced (by her own account) to leave London and live rough under hedges, Jack had a kind of knap-sack on his back, made from a shirt that was really practically new, apart from the slight stains at the armpits: stuffed into the knotted garment were a servicable pair of breeches, a valiantly striped weskit, and that crimson-gilt scarf. He hoped that Sparrow'd managed to hold onto his boots. Hoped -- no, refused to let himself think of what would happen if Sparrow _wasn't_ free by now. Not much given to prayer, was Jack Shaftoe, but he prayed now to any god that might have a soft spot for unnatural affections and healthy, vivid lust: prayed that Sparrow was free, and that he himself would have the felicity of stripping the vile, pestilential garments from that body, and cladding it in new finery.

 

 

Eventually. When he'd made sure Jack Sparrow was thoroughly ... clean.

 

 

 

 

Moggs opened the door of the house on Coleman Street. "Your friend has left already," was his greeting.

 

 

"Oh, good," said Jack. "Actually, it's not him I've come to see. Is Mistress Eliza at home?"

 

 

"I am," said a cool voice from somewhere behind Moggs. "Let him pass, Moggs. How may I help you, Mr Shaftoe?"

 

 

"I'm here for Nevison," said Jack, setting down his bundle on a sleekly polished chest.

 

 

"On what business?"

 

 

"On the business of vengeance," said Jack impatiently. "Come now, there's no doubt that he's guilty as hell: confessed it himself, with no encouragement from me."

 

 

"The marks of your encouragement are still perfectly visible," noted Eliza. She arched an eyebrow. "And what vengeance will you seek for the acts that Mr Nevison has committed against you?"

 

 

Jack said nothing, but his smile clearly conveyed his meaning, for Eliza stepped back. She opened her mouth to call for Moggs: snapped it shut again, with an audible click, and gazed at Jack thoughtfully.

 

 

"Mr Shaftoe," she said pleasantly.

 

 

Jack suppressed a groan. It was never a good sign, when they started thinking.

 

 

"I cannot in good conscience permit you to enter this house and murder a man who's 'prisoned here."

 

 

"What say you just ... go shopping, or something?" suggested Jack.

 

 

"And leave you here?"

 

 

"Oh, I'll leave the premises with you," said Jack, grinning. "Really. You needn't worry about it: I'll ensure there's no --"

 

 

"Mr Shaftoe!"

 

 

Jack was abruptly weary of it all. Weary of arguing with this blonde chit, while across London his love was free, or unfree. Weary of strife. Weary of London itself. Weary, for sure, of the demands of his friends and family.

 

 

But still.

 

 

"What'd you have me do, madam?" he enquired, exasperated. "That man robbed me of money, and near robbed me of something I value _more_ \-- oh, well you may smirk, madam -- and it's not right that he should walk free, after what he's done."

 

 

"Have you not robbed, and committed violence, and sinned against your fellow men?"

 

 

"That's not the point," snapped Jack. "What I mean is --"

 

 

"Jack," said Eliza, thereby catching him off-guard. "Jack," she repeated, stepping closer, "will you let me arrange Mr Nevison's fate?"

 

 

"What're you planning on doing to him?" demanded Jack. "Daily lectures and a healthy diet of gruel?"

 

 

Eliza's eyes seemed bluer than before: perhaps an illusion caused by the delicate flush of anger. "I plan," she said, "to have him arrested for highway robbery, and theft, and murder."

 

 

"He'll hang," said Jack.

 

 

Eliza nodded.

 

 

"But --" began Jack, wondering why _judicial_ murder should be so much more acceptable than the quick and tidy version. The spark in Eliza's eye indicated a certain willingness to argue the matter all afternoon, though: and Jack, contrary as ever, discovered in himself an urge to flee, and leave the tedious business of tying up loose ends to those more constitutionally disposed t'wards it.

 

 

"But?"

 

 

"Excellent plan," said Jack Shaftoe. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've an escaped prisoner to bring to justice."


	43. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Forty-Three

  


 

It was not immediately obvious to Jack Shaftoe exactly _how_ he was going to determine the location of the aforementioned escaped prisoner, despite his assertions to Mistress Eliza; and he cursed his lack of foresight, in not having arranged some meeting point with Bob and Bill. Still, he knew where they had been (viz., Newgate) and he knew where they were in all probability heading (back to Limehouse, surely) and with these options in mind he made his way back to the long, thronging thoroughfare of Cheapside, and stood in a doorway for a moment, trying to determine whether east or west offered him the better chance of a speedy reunion.

For this reunion was something that Jack needed, very very badly, needed with every corpuscle and atomie. He was itchy and twitchy with it, and Eliza’s refusal to let him deliver John Nevison’s just desserts had only exacerbated his condition: he’d been counting on a little bout of justifiable homicide to take the edge off, and now that release had been denied him.

East, he decided, was the safer course. Even if they were not yet back at Bob’s gaff, sooner or later they would be; or at the very least Bob would be, and then he’d be able to track down Sparrow.

Yes.

Having established to his satisfaction that eastward lay the safe and sensible course of action, Jack promptly turned right and headed west, on the off-chance that he might in fact meet them sooner this way.

Fortune had always favoured Jack Shaftoe in the past, and she clearly wasn’t put off by his more disreputable recent activities; within five minutes, Jack spied the approaching figure of his brother. His brother, attracting admiring looks in his regimental jacket, and accompanied by…

Nobody.

Jack broke into a run, weaving through the crowd, and nearly knocked Bob flying as he skidded to a halt in front of him.

“Where is he?” he cried, grabbing Bob’s arm. “Did you find him? Did you spring him?”

“Get off me,” said Bob, pushing Jack away and brushing at his coat. “Yes, yes, it’s all fine, he’s out, he’s—mff!”

Jack, overcome with an emotion which simply had to be expressed, had grabbed his brother in a very emphatic bear-hug. Bob, with some difficulty, struggled free, cursing amiably.

“So where is he?” Jack cried, peering up the street.

“Cleaning up.”

“ _Where?_ ”

“Jack,” said Bob, “I think we should discuss your Captain Sparrow. I really do.”

“Bob,” said Jack, “I think you should keep your nose out of it. I really do.”

“Seriously, Jack. When we came upon him, in the gaol, he was…” He trailed off, and swallowed as if he was clearing his mouth of a foul taste. “Be that as it may. You can’t mean to, to…” Bob waved an agitated hand, in search of a _mot juste_ which would not irreparably impugn the family honour. “To _ally_ yourself with that man.”

Jack swallowed too, at the thought of what Sparrow might’ve been doing in Newgate, might’ve been reduced to; but he could not bring himself to ask. The crowd eddied around the two of them, but the sound of it all was fading away. Jack looked at his brother’s cool eyes, his grave face. ‘Twas clear enough what Bob thought of it all, of sashaying pirates and their cavalcade of sins; and it’d be easy, so easy, to disclaim it all. To tell Bob what he wanted to hear, and renounce the truth of what lay between Jacks Sparrow and Shaftoe.

But that was not what Jack wanted to do. What Jack wanted to do was to claim that truth, claim it and take it and wallow in it, happy as a pig in shit. So fuck all Bob’s concerns and misgivings. Fuck all his disapproving looks and heavy sighs. Jack was more grateful than he could say, for what his brother’d done today; but not so grateful that he would disclaim Jack Sparrow.

So he looked Bob in the eye, and fought down the flush of—was it shame, or arousal? Jack’d no idea—that rose warmly to his face, and he said: “Seriously, Bob. I do mean to. I do, very much and quite utterly, mean to.”

Bob stared for a moment; then shook his head, once, twice, as if in defeat.

“You have to get out of London, anyway,” he said tersely. “I told ‘em you’re dead; best make yourself scarce, afore it comes true.”

“I plan to,” said Jack. “Listen, the boys—”

“I’ll tell ‘em you’re gone. It won’t surprise ‘em much.”

Jack was somewhat taken aback to find that this was a saddening prospect. “I’ll write ‘em,” he said. “Or rather, Jack will. Explain how I had to leave. But I’ll be back, one o’ these days. Tell ‘em that.”

Bob snorted dismissively, as if he had very little faith in either this purported epistle or Jack’s future visits.

“I assure you, brother,” said Jack, bristling, “the letter will be in their tiny hands this very afternoon.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

It wasn’t worth the argument. Jack’d prove him wrong later. Right now… “So…? Where is he?”

That finally brought a twinkle, a rather evil twinkle that Jack recognised from long, long ago, to Bob’s eye. “The bagnio on Feverfew Lane,” he said. “He says he needs a bath. Turner went with him.”

Something heavy and delicious fell into Jack’s belly at the thought of bathing Jack Sparrow; and at the same time something light and leaping was in his chest, at the thought of poor Bill Turner, dragged down Feverfew Lane. Laughter burst from him, and Bob couldn’t help but grin, too.

“You bastard,” said Jack happily, and hugged his brother; then held him at arm’s length, and said, more solemnly (though he could not contain his smile), “But thank you. For what you did, today; for what you do for my boys.”

Bob shrugged. “Like it or not, you’re my kin,” was all he said. But he hugged Jack in return, and it was not without some small portion of regret that Jack watched his brother’s retreating back being swallowed by the Cheapside crowds.

*

“I am _not_ ,” said Bill Turner mutinously, “going in there, Jack Sparrow. I don’t care how bloody dirty you are. Come home with me, an’—“

A red-cheeked boy in a torn dress sidled up behind Bill as he was speaking, and cooed, “Don’t take _him_ home, darlin’, take _me_!”

Jack bit back a laugh as Bill jumped a foot in the air, and gave the boy a fearsome glare. “Leave ‘im be!” Jack cried. “He’s mine, I tell you!” And the laugh, imperfectly stifled, burst forth.

Bill scowled. “You’re drunk,” he said.

In truth, Jack did feel deliciously light-headed, but this was doubtless more the result of his recent ingestion of food and freedom than that last mug of flip. Which he’d needed, hadn’t he, to counter the sad news of Will the Indian’s fate, and wish him well in his heathen afterlife. “Only a little,” he insisted, and linked his arm through Bill’s. “Come on, mate, this place don’t look that bad.”

“Are you serious?” queried Bill, holding his ground and proving more effective an anchor than Jack’s unlamented iron ball had been. He nodded towards the doorway in question, down a narrow flight of stairs upon which lurked a variety of young… people. No, men. Definitely men. Sort of.

“Bob was quite clear. It’s merely a bath-house. Don’t be such a girl.”

“Merely a bath-house, my arse.”

Jack pouted, and scratched. “Well, then, how about you make yourself useful? You could go an’ get me a clean shirt.”

But Bill wasn’t paying any attention to him. He was craning over Jack’s shoulder, and smiling; and when Jack turned to look, there, oh there—

There stood Jack Shaftoe, tall and well-knit and smiling so wide he _glowed_ ; and before Jack could utter a sound, Shaftoe was pulling him close and fastening his hot mouth on Jack’s, and kissing him, his tongue sliding moistly over Jack’s lips till they opened; he was pressing himself up against Jack right there in the street, and a raucous cheer rose up all around them, whistles and catcalls and laughter. It was bright and fiery and infectious, and an equally raucous happiness coursed through Jack’s veins. Lord, this day was… oh, so close to perfection that he could barely hope for anything more.

Shaftoe broke the kiss, and leaned away, grinning and wrinkling his nose. “Christ, Jack, you stink,” he said cheerfully.

Jack could only grin back, giddy with joy. “Oh how I’ve missed you, you silver-tongued devil.”

“Glad to see you,” said Bill, clapping Shaftoe on the shoulder. “I’ll be off, then: you two’ll be fine on your own, I suspect. See you back at the Pearl, in a couple of days, eh?”

Jack was about to concur with every element of this, particularly the one about being fine on their own, when Shaftoe said, “Hang about, Bill: are you goin’ back to Bob’s, to get William?”

Bloody children again! Jack heaved a melodramatic sigh.

“Aye,” said Bill, ignoring him.

“Can you wait half an hour? Jack, can you pen a farewell to the boys from me?”

Jack opened his mouth in what was about to be a most vociferous protest against any undertaking at all which increased the length of time he would have to wait before he was a) naked, b) clean, c) fucked, or d) all of the above, when it occurred to him that the implication of a _letter_ was that there would be no more _visits_ ; so he merely heaved a second huge sigh, and acquiesced.

“I haven’t any paper, though.”

Shaftoe grinned. “We sh’ll ask inside: there ain’t a damn thing you’ll be refused in there, Jack, trust me.”

Bill cleared his throat. “I s’pose I can take a wander through Covent Garden,” he said; “Kitty’ll be in need of some trifles to placate her, after me and Will spending all this time sorting you out. She won’t be a happy woman, when I tell her I’m leavin’ again.”

“Here,” said Shaftoe, pulling a coin from his pocket. “Buy her some ribbons from me, too; and tell her I’m sorry about the Finger Incident.”

Since the only Finger Incident Jack was aware of was the one involving Spaniards, ransoms, arson, and yet no London housewives, this was an entirely cryptic comment; but Bill nodded grimly and pocketed the coin.

“And don’t forget my shirt,” added Jack.

Shaftoe grinned, his crooked tooth making Jack salivate. “Belay that last, Mr Turner; all sorted,” he said, and hoisted a knapsack that seemed to in fact be _composed_ of a shirt.

“Ooh, a present!”

“Present?” said Shaftoe, and he leaned in close, and whispered, “Mayhap you’ll have to _earn_ it first, Captain Sparrow.”

Jack shivered and was rendered temporarily speechless with desire for said gainful employment. Bill rolled his eyes.

“Half an hour,” he said, “An’ I’ll be back; but I’m not coming in, if you ain’t standing here with that letter when I get here then I’m gone, I warn you.”

“Fair enough!” cried Jack, and fairly skipped down the stairs to the bath-house, towing Jack Shaftoe in his wake.

 

A private room, Shaftoe’d demanded, along with a hot bath, and paper, and pen, and ink; and as predicted, none of these requests proved even the littlest bit problematic. A slight young man, loose-haired and barefoot and sloe-eyed, led them down into a stone-floored corridor which would’ve reminded Jack of his more recent accommodations (being ill-lit, subterranean, and peopled by men of very questionable morals) save that all the sounds he could hear were of low laughter and lower moans (the good sort), and that the majority of its occupants were in a state of partial undress. Heads turned, curious, as they passed by.

“So… you an’ your brother were familiar with this establishment, eh, Jack?” he murmured. “You s’prise me, I must confess. Thought you were more _traditional_ than that.”

Shaftoe did not rise to the bait; merely grinned as they were shown into a fire-and-candlelit room, whose perfumed air was warm and gravid with steam from the bath in one corner. There was a pile of linen on the floor, for drying; a damp-looking rug in front of the fireplace.

“Can I bring you anything else? Wine? More company? I could… stay, if you—”

“Rum,” said Jack firmly, and Shaftoe nodded, and whispered something in the youth’s ear. He nodded solemnly, and left.

The door was thick; when it closed, when Shaftoe, staring at Jack all the while, dropped the latch, the silence beat warmly against Jack’s eardrums. He did not want to move. This, right here, this moment, was heaven in and of itself.

He’d woken in the stenchful dark of a Newgate dungeon, chained and pawed; he’d been kicked and beaten and threatened today, and escaped Nate Kincaid by a hair’s breadth. And now? Now he stood safe and free, and in front of him stood the ridiculously handsome Mr Jack Shaftoe, who was looking at Jack—filthy, bruised, dishevelled, evil-smelling Jack—with the hottest, bluest, surest light in his eyes, as though Jack were the most edible thing he’d ever seen.

Heaven indeed; or the very definite promise of it.

Jack shrugged off his coat, tossed his hat to the floor. Not taking his eyes from Shaftoe’s, he prowled over to him, and put a fingertip to Shaftoe’s bottom lip. “Now,” he murmured, “you’re all mine, Jack.”

Shaftoe smiled at him; put his four-fingered hand to the small of Jack’s back and canted his hips, bringing them into delicious, sparky contact. “No,” he said, and when Jack arched an eyebrow, “No: you’re all _mine_. And I sh’ll prove it to you; just as soon as you’ve writ this letter.” And he flourished the paper.

Jack pouted, and was about to present an extremely convincing argument as to why it could wait when a knock came on the door; Shaftoe opened it, and collected two bottles and something metallic, before latching it again.

“Two? I should tell you,” said Jack, “that I’ve already had quite a bit to drink. Celebrating, see.”

Shaftoe shook his head. “Only one bottle of rum. ‘Cos I can see that.”

“And the other? And what’s that thing?”

“That’s what I’m going to do while you’re writing the letter. Let’s get your clothes off—no, no, wait, let _me_ , Jack, let me…”

Jack, boneless with lust (in every part, save that which was afflicted quite contrarily) stood before the fire and swayed slightly as Jack Shaftoe, his burdens deposited on the floor along with his coat, proceeded to carefully divest Jack of every filthy, infested stitch of clothing. Jack watched his face, watched his lascivious and anticipatory grin being replaced by sympathetic winces, and eventually a cloudy, lust-tinged anger.

“Who?” Shaftoe demanded, running his fingertips over the bruises that illustrated Jack’s ribs and hipbone, and then up to the purple swelling on his cheekbone. “Who, Jack?”

“No-one. It don’t matter.”

“It most assuredly fucking does.”

“Not now.” Jack took Shaftoe’s hand; ran it down his body, over his belly. Shaftoe swallowed.

“None o’ that,” he said, pulling his hand away. “Bill’ll be back soon. Here, lie down there—no, on your front, how can you write like that? Here’s the paper…”

Jack grumbled, but did as he was told, lying on his belly on the rug, propped on his elbows; and did not regret it, not when Shaftoe knelt astride the back of Jack’s thighs and, pushing his hair out of the way, unstoppered a bottle and poured a cool trail of oil down his spine. All the way down his spine; Jack could feel a rivulet working itself, with a delicate tickle, down the furrow of his arse. He wriggled, and groaned; too delicious, and then Jack Shaftoe’s wide warm palms were rubbing the oil across his back.

“Now then,” said Shaftoe, in a tone which Jack recognised as straining to be businesslike, “dip your nib, mate.”

Because it would simply be rude to ignore such an opening, Jack wriggled more and advised that he’d prefer it if Mr Shaftoe were to dip _his_ , and Shaftoe laughed, and smacked him on the arse.

“I want you to write: ‘My dear Danny and Jimmy’.”

“Pass me the rum, first.”

“This is your last piece of procrastination, hear me?”

“Absolutely. Ahh, that’s better. Thank you. ‘My dear Danny and Jimmy’, yes, got that…”

“’It is with immense regret that I must take my leave of you, but…’”

Jack scribbled busily, trying not to undulate too much under Shaftoe’s hands; then they were gone, and something cool and metal was on his skin. “What the devil—?” he demanded.

“Ain’t you ever heard of a _strigil_?”

“I’ve been involved in many a strigil, but I’ve won out every time, haha.”

“Oh, good one, immensely funny. No, a strigil. Scrapes off all the oil, an’ the dirt; a fine way to cleanse, when there’s no water to hand. Or, in this case, when you’re going to turn the bathwater black if you get into it in your current state.”

“What’s wrong with black bathwater? Shows it’s working.”

“Nothing, save its dreadful _opacity_ ,” said Jack Shaftoe. “How can I ogle you properly in a tub of filth?” He scraped busily; and Jack’s skin certainly felt good, where that blade’d been.

“So, where was I? Oh yes. ‘… regret that I must take my leave of you, but circumstances beyond my control compel me.’”

“Uh huh,” said Jack, writing _but that strangely handsome devil Captain Sparrow is whisking me away from this repulsive city._

“’It was an unexpected delight to make your acquaintance, and I am proud to have two such fine and, um, inventive boys.”

_You are clearly quite astonishingly wicked children and I am proud that you take after me with such gusto and accuracy._

“’I shall endeavour to keep in contact in the future, and to visit whene’er I can.’”

_I am not sure when Captain Sparrow will allow me to return, since he is quite utterly enamoured of every square inch of my being, inside and out, and consequently cannot conceive of life without me, but I’ll visit whene’er I can._

“That seems like a lot more than I said, Jack.”

“’Endeavour’ is an awf’lly long word. Look,” and Jack traced the words with his finger, smudging them only slightly: “ _Visit whene’er I can_ , it says.”

“Hmmmm. I’m trusting you here, you realise.”

“I do,” said Jack with great sincerity, “and I would never abuse that trust, Jack.”

“’Be good for your Aunties and your Nuncle Bob and careful with explosives, love, your doting Father, blah blah.’”

_Be good, and if you can’t be good, be good at it. Like Captain Sparrow. And your da. Who’s very good at lots of things, many of which might surprise you. Such as —_

“Seriously, Jack, are you making shit up?”

“Absolutely not, and I’m very offended that you could think such a thing,” said Jack, sighing and crossing out the last half-completed sentence. This was for children’s eyes, after all. He peppered the bottom half of the paper with kisses and a large heart, with _Jack_ in the middle of it. “There you go.”

Jack Shaftoe snatched up the paper; bent, and kissed Jack’s tailbone, sliding his tongue a scant inch into the warm oily valley of Jack’s arse. Jack collapsed flat, and made a desperate keening sound; Shaftoe chuckled as he jumped to his feet, and said in a low growl, “Don’t you move, Jack Sparrow!”

The door slammed; Jack rolled over, groaning happily, and smiled to himself as he wallowed in a red and glorious reverie of what the coming hour would bring.


	44. European Physick, Chapter Forty-Four

  
  
Jack Shaftoe ached and itched with every second, every inch, of the distance that separated him from Sparrow: had to force himself t'wards the street, away from where Jack Sparrow lay _naked and oiled and firelit_ , to deliver the damn'd letter into Bootstrap's hand.

"Give him my regards," he said. "Tell him -- tell the boys -- I'll be back."

"How's Jack, then?" said Bootstrap.

"Recuperating rapidly," said Jack Shaftoe, bouncing slightly in his boots. "Don't worry, mate: I'll have him back to the _Pearl_ by, oooh, Wednesday night. You'll be all right 'til then, eh?"

"Aye," said Bill Turner. "I've my own farewells to make, in Deptford." He hefted the bulky package at his side, but did not look especially distraught at the prospect of abandoning his wife and child once more.

"Give 'em both my love," said Jack. "Will's a good lad. Ever so brave ... I s'pose Kitty'll be sewing you some new shirts, eh?"

"Why, d'you want one?"

"Kind of you, but not to worry," said Jack hastily. "Best be getting back to Jack, eh? No knowing what'll happen to him, left alone."

The two of them shared a solemn look, thinking of the _last_ time they'd left Jack Sparrow to his own devices in London.

"Make sure you get something for the lice," was Bill's parting shot. Jack did not linger to watch him make his way quickly past the loitering molly-boys. He'd long-delayed business indoors.

 

The firelight shimmered on Sparrow's oily skin, making the bruises and welts -- how fucking _dare_ they, how dare anyone? -- less stark, more artful. Sparrow was lying on his back on a comfortable bed of linen atop the rug, eyes closed. There were inkstains on his right hand, which was tending an impressive cockstand. The sight was enough to make Jack's mouth water: but not yet, not quite yet.

"All done," he advised, dropping the latch. "And now, Jack, now it's time to ... to get you cleaned up."

"I should much prefer to be _dirty_ ," argued Sparrow, cracking open an eyelid and smiling as though they'd never been apart. "Do you feel qualified to assist me with that, Jack?"

Jack sighed heavily, for the sole purpose of eliciting that delightful pout from his love: dropped to his knees beside Sparrow, and kissed him swift and sweet. "I s'pose," he allowed, "that I'm amenable to persuasion."

"Are you amenable to undressing, eh?" hinted Sparrow, reaching up to Jack's belt.

"Aye, an' I'll lay it'll be quicker to do it myself," said Jack with a grin, springing to his feet. He shrugged off his coat and left it lying; dragged his shirt over his head and flung it at the hook on the back of the door, but missed; toed off his boots; and slowed, turning t'wards Sparrow, letting Sparrow watch the slow business of unbuttoning. His own prick was nigh as enthusiastic as Sparrow's, and he held it against his belly as he kicked his breeches aside and stood naked for Jack Sparrow.

Sparrow moaned: and Jack said gleefully, "C'mon, then: into the bath with you."

Sparrow sighed, and sat up slowly, clutching his ribcage and sucking in air. Jack, berating himself for his thoughtlessness, reached down to help the pirate to his feet: and found himself sprawled atop Jack Sparrow, who growled in happy discomfort and held him close, writhing against him so their cocks rubbed 'gainst one another, fastening his mouth over Jack's own, arching his back and spreading his legs.

Who could resist? Not Jack Shaftoe, for sure. Still kissing Sparrow hungrily, he worked his hand down between their bodies until he felt the warm slickness of oil in the crease of Sparrow's arse: stroked it in, and was rewarded by Sparrow bucking against him, eager and desperate and reclaimed.

Jack freed his mouth, despite the delicious suction of Sparrow's mouth and the way he bit Jack's lip. "Oil," he said indistinctly.

"Jack," breathed Sparrow, and there was such simple profundity to't that Jack felt he might spend at the mere _sound_ of his love's voice.

In which case, he'd best make haste.

Fingers slick and pressing in, kissing Sparrow hard and hungry: time enough once he was washed -- once they were both washed, now, for Jack was sure the dirt and vermin were transferring themselves to his own person just as the paint from his back had marked Sparrow's chest, so long ago (a fortnight, no more, but a lifetime away) in that ordinary in Greenwich -- for Jack to apply his mouth to those other parts of Jack Sparrow that so urgently demanded his attention.

He'd have gone slow, from concern for what Sparrow might've suffered in Newgate: but he was being hauled in, Jack Sparrow curving against him like the sea, clutching and holding and demanding, moaning into Jack's kiss like a man who'd been deprived of every joy for long years' imprisonment.

"Oh, fuck, Jack," said Jack Shaftoe, and then forgot every word he knew, for all were driven out by the sublime glorious press of Sparrow's body around him, the incandescent heat that dwelt within that body soaking into him through his prick, through every inch of skin where they touched, driving out the dank coldness that'd assailed him since Sparrow'd disappeared. He thrust hard, needing to be as close as anyone could ever be -- closer -- to Sparrow, close enough to leave his mark, close enough that they might never be parted again.

Jack Sparrow was, for a wonder, beyond words too. He moaned, and kissed, and gasped, and cried out: and far too soon, was spurting hotly against Jack's belly, the familiarity of which sensation (only and ever Jack Sparrow, this bliss) was enough to jolt Jack over his own precipice.

 

Somehow, despite the lassitude that spread rapidly through Jack now that every thing was restored to its rightful place (Jack Sparrow in his arms, Sparrow's tongue in his mouth, his prick buried deep in Sparrow's body), he managed to extricate himself and get the two of them into the bath, which brimmed perilously. At least the bundle of clothes he'd bought for Sparrow was out of the way, on a bench: and Jack frankly did not give a toss if he had to walk out of here in damp clothes, as long as he had Sparrow at his side.

He crooked his legs around Sparrow's, reached for a rough sponge, and began to wash the pirate's skin. A sheen of oil formed on the surface of the water, subtly red with reflected firelight. Perhaps it was for the best, for the water was becoming murky already.

"Jack?" he said softly, remembering what Bob'd told him about Sparrow in Newgate. "Did they ... did anyone ..." And could not bring the sentence to its right conclusion: but Sparrow's eyes slid to where the sponge was crushed in Jack's palm.

"I was saving myself," said Jack Sparrow, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Though under the circumstances, I confess, I was exceptionally grateful that Bootstrap and your brother turned up when they did."

"But you didn't have to, to do aught you didn't want?"

"Why, Mr Shaftoe? Don't you fancy damaged goods?" snapped Sparrow.

"I just need to know who to kill for it," said Jack, low and nasty, bracing himself against the side of the bath to push himself up and out of the water.

"No need," said Sparrow. "Truthfully, Jack. There was this, this fellow, whose protection I had: but it never got further than m'hand, and my mouth. No, no, I mean _words_ , Jack: talking. Surely you remember?"

Jack sighed happily, as much from the memory Sparrow'd evoked as from relief at the purport of his words. "I'm glad of it," he said. "But Christ, Jack, if --"

"I'd have done whatever I had to," said Sparrow, all fierce. "Whatever needed doing, to stay hale and whole 'til you came for me. I knew you'd come, Jack." The water shivered with his vehemence. Then, with a wicked smile, "I'd've pretended it was you."

"Me?" demanded Jack. "Some reeking, verminous recidivist? Not that I'm saying I've never been there, you understand: but that was long ago."

"Who knows what I'd have done," said Sparrow dreamily, leaning back against the edge of the tub and spreading his arms wide along its rim, "if I'd only been able to close my eyes and convince myself I was with you, Jack: not his grimy hands but yours, which I see are fairly clean now: not his foul breath but ..." His eyes blinked open. "But you see, mate, there's one tremendous problem. Millions of people in the world. Millions of men. And only one of 'em's perfect: only one of 'em's you."

* * *

It wasn't often that anyone, even Jack Sparrow, could reduce Shaftoe to silence, and though it did not last for more than a couple of heartbeats, Jack revelled in it. Watched as Shaftoe opened his mouth to speak, and frowned, and swallowed.

Oh, here it came. The protest --

"Me, perfect? Haw! I --"

"Perfect for me, Jack," said Jack Sparrow, holding Shaftoe's blue gaze. "My mate. My match." He licked his lips. "Mine."

"As you're mine, Jack Sparrow," said Shaftoe, as quiet as a man in church. His hands were doing unholy things, beneath the rather grimy water -- couldn't all be Jack himself, when'd _Shaftoe_ last bathed? -- and Jack rocked lazily into his touch, feeling the restorative warmth spreading through his entire corpus, driving out all the nagging pains, the ghost of Nate Kincaid's touch, every bad thing that'd occurred since last he'd had Jack Shaftoe's skin on his. Better than any Cure, was Jack Shaftoe. Possibly better than anything else at all.

"Now, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack, his prick rising gratefully at Shaftoe's sure touch, "what d'you say to a little turn-about, eh?"

"You want to fuck me, eh?" said Shaftoe, with a broad imbecilic grin.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Only that if you don't carry out your dread threat immediately, I sh'll be forced to perform it upon _you_."

It took some experimentation, and considerable accommodation, but it was most certainly possible to fuck in a bath-tub, though the water level was rather lower by the time that Jack Shaftoe lowered himself slowslowslow _fast_ onto Jack's aching prick, hissing at the stretch of it, flushed and glorious and absolutely Jack's.

"You right?" said Jack breathlessly. "There's more oil, I could --"

"No! Just give it to me, Jack, give me your cock, give me it all, gi-- unhhh." For Jack had complied most enthusiastically with Shaftoe's impatient instructions, and had pushed as hard, as fast, as far as he could, feeling the resistance and then the delicious _give_ as Jack Shaftoe's body took him and took him.

Shaftoe's legs were propped on Jack's shoulders: if he turned his head, he could lick along the hard shiny line of Shaftoe's shin. But then he couldn't see Shaftoe's face, flushed and gasping and grinning slack-jawed, and that was a sight that Jack hadn't seen enough of, not lately, not ever. Instead, he slid a hand up Shaftoe's chest, pinching his small hard nipple, soothing, stroking, exploring. Back down to water-level, where Shaftoe's cock bobbed and jutted: oh, Jack wanted to put his mouth to it, but squirm as he might it wasn't possible, not without breaking this rhythm, not without interrupting the steady slide of his cock in Shaftoe's arse. Just for a moment, Jack thought of Nate Kincaid, and of how very different it would have been. Just for a second, before the sheer immediacy of Jack Shaftoe's curses and oaths and pleas swept every other thought, every other person, everything from his mind.

 

The water was considerably less inviting now, and once Shaftoe, groaning a little, had manoeuvred himself back to sit at the other end of the tub, Jack began to scrub fiercely at his skin.

"No need, mate, you've transferred it all to me," said Shaftoe. "Tell you what, Jack: duck your head under. That'll get rid of the wildlife."

Jack grimaced at the reminder of his state of infestation, but he held his breath and slithered down under the water, light blossoming behind his eyelids, and scrabbled one-handed at his hair in the hope of dislodging the more stubborn beasts. Shaftoe tickled the sole of Jack's foot, and he surfaced, spluttering.

"Anyway," said Shaftoe in a rush, "it ain't just you as had ... other offers."

"Really?" said Jack, arching his eyebrows. Shaftoe was watching him closely, wanting a response. "Who was that, then? Your young lady?"

"She's not," began Shaftoe heatedly, and bit his lip. "No, Jack. Jamie Martingale crept into my bed, the night poor Will died."

"Did he now?" said Jack, vivid vitriol sparking in his veins. "And what did you do, eh? Pretend he was me?"

"I certainly did," said Shaftoe, with a dreamy smile.

"What a very vivid imagination you have, Mr Shaftoe," Jack congratulated him icily, drawing his feet away from Shaftoe's caress.

"Oh, I do," said Shaftoe, winking. Winking! For fuck's --

"Kicked him out of bed, I did," Jack Shaftoe went on, the corners of his mouth twitching, "and sent him back to his own with a bottle of rum. _Just_ the way I treat you."

"Jack Shaftoe," said Jack joyfully, with no very clear idea as to the precise nature of the myriad sensations exploding in his brain, "I do --"

A shuffling outside the door: a knock.

"What d'ye want?" called Shaftoe testily.

"Did you need anything more, sir?"

"No, thank you kindly," said Shaftoe through gritted teeth. Jack watched him listen to the sound of receding footsteps. Damn all interruptions: damn London, where so many people seemed to make him their business!

But soon they'd be at sea.

"What about your mate Nevison, eh?" he said, struck by a thought. "Did you nail him? 'Cording to your brother Bob, 'twas all his doing."

"I've ensured," said Shaftoe, with a nasty smile, "that his sins will be visited on him tenfold."

"Tenfold? Aha, is _that_ the Finger Incident to which you so maddeningly referred, earlier?"

"I did? Nah, I'll tell you _that_ tale later," said Shaftoe. "Mr Nevison will be receiving his just desserts: and before he hears _Sentence_ , he'll have his ears filled with enough words to send him mad."

"What are you on about?"

"He's sinned against me with his tongue, Jack: with words, and lies, and rumours, and blackmail. So 'tis only fit," said Jack Shaftoe, grinning, "that I sh'd give him over to someone who makes words her business."

"You've left him with Mistress Eliza? What the devil?"

"It's not only emancipation that concerns her," said Jack Shaftoe smugly. "She's fond, too, of its opposite, full penalty of law. Whether for me, or for him."

"Oh, I've sentence to pass on you, Jack Shaftoe," said Jack lazily, leaning back. "Biblical justice."

"Is that about, about _sodomy_ , then?" said Shaftoe, grinning.

"No, Jack: I confess I'm surprised by your ignorance. 'Tis the justice we visited on Mr Martingale, that time." Shaftoe was smirking, and opening his mouth to say something, but Jack'd had enough words for now, and so he hurried on to the end of his thought. "An eye for an eye. A wound for a wound."

"A kiss for a kiss," said Shaftoe blurrily, carrying out sentence. "A fuck, mmm, Jack, a fuck for a fuck."

Apologies for delay -- no Interweb at home, and I couldn't face posting this from werk, Just In Case   



	45. impofperversity | European Physick, Chapter Forty-Five

  


“Jamie! Halloo there! Jamie!”

Joe Henry’s voice came echoing up from the dark gloom of the river. Jamie Martingale, all wrapped and bundled against the evening chill, peered over the gunwale, and there was the _Pearl_ ’s jolly-boat, all laden down with men and supplies and rocking as Joe—standing there all gilded by the yellow light of the hooked lanthorn that he held high—waved over-enthusiastically, and was swatted and cursed by Staines.

“Look who we found, ashore!”

Jamie squinted harder, biting his lip, but his lurching hopes were dashed. ‘Twas only Mr Turner, in a knitted cap of an odd shade of yellow-green that seemed almost luminous in the gloom. Good to see him, good to have him back... but why wasn’t Jack Sparrow with him, nor Jack Shaftoe?

“Where’s Captain?” Jamie shouted. “Ain’t he with you, Mr Turner? Din’t you get him out of the gaol?”

Bill Turner craned his neck, and waved a placating hand. “He’s out, he’s out, never fear. He’s with Shaftoe.”

“Where?”

“You’re asking me to keep track o’ those two? I’ve got no bloody idea. But he said they’d be back today.”

“Ain’t much of today left,” Jamie grumbled.

“Patience, lad.”

Patience? There wasn’t much of that left, neither, on the _Black Pearl_. The fellows were itching to be away; Jamie no less than the others, even though—or perhaps because—it would take him away from Will’s resting place. He wanted, very badly, to be at sea again. To breathe fresh warm air, feel sunshine on his skin, and let the wind and the waves scour out the memories of sickness and loss.

Joe bounded up onto the deck beside him, bringing a smile to his face. Dear Joe. He’d been a better friend to Jamie in the last few days than Jamie could ever have expected. A good companion, sunny and sweet. He’d invited Jamie, their first night back aboard, to bunk in with him in the low nook that backed onto the galley-stove. “Farley’s been using it, while I’ve been gone; but I won it off him, fair an’ square, an’ it’s mine. But there’s room for two. If you don’t mind a bit of a squash. An’ it’s warm. Dead warm. I mean, um, sorry. Really warm.”

He was right. It was dead warm. And a bit of a squash. But Jamie didn’t mind that. He was rather appalled, in fact, by just how little he minded it. Will was barely in the ground, for God’s sake, and yet…

Yet he’d be lying, if he said that Joe’s wide rosy mouth, his bright gaze, his kind heart and wicked laugh, weren’t a wonderful balm. If he said that he’d not fancy more of what Joe Henry had to offer. But Joe didn’t offer, didn’t tease, didn’t hint, didn’t let his hands fall anywhere they shouldn’t in the night. Just shared the warmth of his back and the peaceful rhythm of his breathing. Let Jamie be; and much as Jamie appreciated it, in some ways it seemed the greatest tease of all.

“And, Jamie? When we’re done unloading, I’ve a s’prise for you!”

“What’s that? Why?”

“No reason,” said Joe, ducking his head, colouring, shrugging, smiling. “Just ‘cause.” And he turned back to help the others.

*

No sign of the Captain still, nor Mr Shaftoe, when Joe (thruppence poorer) left the dice game to take himself off to his bed. Farley’d wanted Joe to wager his sleeping place again, but Joe’d not risk that. Not now. Not while he was sharing it with Jamie.

He was about to snuff the half-inch of candle stub that’d lit his way into the cramped and stuffy nook when Jamie peered in.

“Oh, good! You ain’t asleep, yet. Shift yourself over, then, make some room!”

Joe did, mashing himself up against the colder bulkhead, leaving the warmest spot for Jamie; who bent his head and crept in, pulling off his boots and coat, and sat beside Joe, wriggling his legs under the blankets. So handsome that Joe couldn’t even speak. His sharp nose was pink with chill, and he rubbed his hands together, blowing into them.

“Cold one tonight, eh Joe?”

“Ain’t they all, hereabouts?” Joe managed, blessing the weather as an endless topic of neutral conversation.

“True enough. ‘T’would be worse, in a hammock; you’re kind, to share this spot wi’ me.”

“Nah. Wouldn’t be so warm in here with one.”

Jamie looked at him sideways, that teasing look with the faintest beginning of a smile. As if he could see right through Joe; as if he knew why Joe really wanted him here. Joe swallowed, and tried to look completely innocent of all those wicked thoughts. Couldn’t think ‘em. Not when Jamie’d just lost his Will. And besides… why would Jamie even look at Joe that way, after having had such a man at his side? Joe’d only make a fool of himself.

“Anyway,” he said gruffly, willing away the warm swell of blood at his groin, “I brought you some o’ this.” He pulled out the brown paper packet (only a little squashed, only a little grease-marked) and presented it to Jamie. Their hands touched in passing; and how ridiculous it was, that they could share a bed for nights on end and yet the touch of Jamie’s fingertips still sent such a massive shiver down Joe’s spine.

“Ooh, ta, Joe, you’re a gent. What is it?” said Jamie, unwrapping messily; but his face went still and sad when he saw what it was.

“Oh. Don’t you like plumcake? I din’t know. I thought—”

“No, I like it. I like it fine, and it’s a kind thought, and I ‘ppreciate it. Thank you, Joe. Here, have half wi’ me?”

Joe took the half, and they ate in silence; clear as clear, it was, that Jamie’d been taken with some maudlin thought. P’rhaps Joe should leave it alone; but it upset him, to see his friend gone quiet.

“What is it, Jamie?”

“Nothing, truly. I’m being an ass. It was good cake, an’ I thank you for’t.”

“But…?”

Jamie shook his head and sighed noisily, and screwed the paper into a ball. (Joe took it from him; he’d straighten it later. No sense wasting it.) Jamie reached for the candle and snuffed it between finger and thumb; the dark was quick and utter. They lay down, back to back, and Joe pulled the blanket high.

“I bought Will plumcake,” Jamie said, a long minute later. “In London. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Not Joe’s fault then, and a wave of relief washed through him. Though he couldn’t help but wonder what thanks the Indian might’ve given Jamie for the gift, and suspect they were more than he’d received. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying hard as he could for sincerity, in the face of the jealousy he truly felt.

“Sorry for what? For bringin’ me a present? Don’t be daft.”

Joe shrugged, his shoulderblades moving against Jamie’s back. “For reminding you. For… for not being, you know. Him.”

“Don’t say that. You’re… you’re you, ain’t you.” Jamie’s hand came back, patting Joe’s hip, and Joe froze, closed his eyes against the touch.

This was the strangest thing. The strangest, sweetest, most torturous thing. He’d never wanted anything, anyone, more in his entire life; but letting Jamie know it, ah, that would prob’ly mean losing it all, all the closeness and company and this incredible proximity to Jamie’s warm strong body, his silky hair, his smile and his smell. So Joe just had to bite his tongue, and say nothing.

“D’you know what I miss the most?” murmured Jamie, after a while.

Joe drew in a shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut against visions of what that thing might be. Dark hands on Jamie’s milky skin. A red tongue, sliding moist and hot, or… He shook his head.

“I miss stupid things. The weight of an arm on you when you’re goin’ to sleep. Breath on your neck.”

Such little things. Such easy things. “I could put,” said Joe, and then stopped short before he broke everything, ruined everything.

A small silence, and then Jamie was twisting round, rolling over. A hand on Joe’s shoulder, and Jamie saying his name; Joe wriggling and turning, awkward in the tiny space, bringing his knees up against the fear of discovery—what a shameful thing that’d be, if Jamie realised that Joe was harbouring this great hard cockstand, and pretending to be a mate while he did it—and reaching over Jamie’s waist. Holding him. Giving him the weight of an arm, the warmth of his breath.

Heaven.

For a moment he just concentrated on breathing quiet and even and calm. But he couldn’t resist mouthing invisibly into the dark, just to see how the words felt on his tongue: “Oh, I want you Jamie, I want you so much.”

Jamie showed no sign of knowing what he was doing. Joe licked his lips. “I want to hold you close and touch you and feel your hands on me.” Felt himself swelling even more, impossibly, beautifully. Keeping still was a delicious agony. His heart was clapping along like a galloping horse. He’d never get to sleep; might as well give up now; might as well indulge himself. “I want to kiss you, Jamie,” he mouthed. “Put my tongue in your mouth.”

“Joe?”

Joe’s heart went from a gallop to a complete stop, and he felt as though he was being thrown headlong. Had Jamie felt the movement of his silent speech? Worse, noticed the state of his privities?

“Mmm?” He tried to sound sleepy. But didn’t.

Jamie didn’t sound sleepy either. He sounded strange, and nervous, as he murmured, “Joe… I—I know I shouldn’t, but—”

A thump, a loud thump, and distant laughter. A shout: _Ain’t you going to welcome your Captain back, you lazy bastards?_

Joe and Jamie both lurched up, cracking skulls, yelping, laughing in sudden relief as the tension between them snapped and evaporated.

“They’re back!”

Joe grabbed Jamie’s arm. The muscle beneath his fingers flexed and tensed.

“Wait! What shouldn’t you do, Jamie? What were you going to say?”

Jamie clapped a hand over Joe’s, and squeezed. “Tell you later, mate. Promise. Oh, I promise. But come on; they’re back!”

*

“Jesus Christ,” said Jack Shaftoe, loudly, “the entire French navy could’ve boarded, an’ they’d not’ve noticed. Security, Captain Sparrow, is very very lax.”

Jack grinned at him, and couldn’t dispute this assessment; his feet’d touched down on his beloved’s black boards before Grey’d even noticed their (admittedly stealthy) approach. But here they all came, now, boiling out of the hatches, variously lively, groggy with sleep, or insensible with drink; clapping their Captain on the back, congratulating him on his escape from durance vile and complaining at his long absence.

There was Burton, a fading bruise on his face; Djagdao, and West. Jack thanked him for his able stewardship. “And are we replenished, Mr West? All present and correct? Are we ready to sail off into the wild, er, black yonder, just as soon as we should take it into our heads to do so?”

“You’re the last back,” West told him. “An’ John’s been buying up half of Rochester; we’re set to go, on the next tide if you’ll have it.”

Jack looked around, and knew his crew well enough that their agreement was clear in their faces. He grinned. “Next tide sounds good to me, mate. And here, Mr Burton, since you’re playing quartermaster: we’ve another few quid to add to the coffers.”

He motioned at Shaftoe, who pulled out a fat money-bag, and tossed it to Burton. Jamie Martingale, appearing on deck with a pink-faced Joe Henry in tow, whistled and made a grab for it.

“Now, now, Jamie!” Jack cried. “Keep your hands off! You’re developing a tendency to go after things what ain’t yours to have, you are.”

Martingale (who did not seem as heartbroken as Jack’d feared he might be after Will’s death; p’rhaps he’d found himself some form of solace, already?) responded to Jack’s taunt by looking most hideously guilty, and glaring accusingly at Jack Shaftoe; who winked back at him, and came up to stand pleasurably close behind Jack, putting his hand to Jack’s hip. Jack could _feel_ the man’s smirk, he’d swear it.

“Where did this lot come from, then?” Burton wanted to know, and Bootstrap put in, “Is the next tide going to be soon enough for our departure, or should we be all hands to the sweeps? Is the law on your tail, gents?”

“Profits of legitimate trade,” said Shaftoe, hand splayed over his heart. “Honest.”

The company, to a man, looked suitably dubious.

“We sold a few more doses of the Cure on our way back,” said Jack. Martingale frowned, and started in with, “But I thought we sold ‘em all, I thought—”

“Well, obviously we had to _manufacture_ some additional supplies, first,” said Shaftoe cheerfully. “But the fame of our Medicine has spread, and demand was high; besides, it turns out the Captain’s a dab hand at whittling. Whittle, whittle, whittle, all day and night.”

Jack shrugged modestly, Joe Henry started to giggle, and Shaftoe said in an aggrieved tone, “Anyway, what else d’you think would’ve taken us this long?”

Martingale wasn’t the only one to put forth a suggestion as to other delays that might’ve been encountered, but his was definitely one of the dirtiest. Jack could not prevent a little spark flaring in his gut, even as he laughed, and seemed he wasn’t alone in that; Shaftoe’s arm tightened about Jack, and he said, with a delicious and familiar edge to his voice: “Well, you’re all wrong; we’ve been working hard on your behalf; but then, on the other hand, you’re all right. In that I can’t bloody wait to carry out every one of those appalling and disreputable suggestions. So if you’ll excuse us gents—and Jack, if you’re of a similar mind—what say we take ourselves below?”

Jack lifted an eyebrow, though the blood began to gather warmly in his groin. “I should warn you, Mr Shaftoe, that these fellows are going to assume the worst, if you insist upon saying things like that. They’re going to think that you take unnatural liberties with my person. And vice versa.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Jack Shaftoe, without dropping his voice a single notch; “and I’d hate to disturb anyone by taking these liberties in public. But take ‘em I shall, Jack Sparrow. Take ‘em I shall.” With which, seizing Jack by the arm, Shaftoe dragged him (unresisting, and winking back over his shoulder at the laughing company) below.

*

He should’ve taken a lanthorn down with him; it was black as pitch in their cabin, and Jack swore as he cracked his hip on the corner of the table.

Sparrow laughed from the doorway. “Ah, it’s good to be back. You, in the dark, blaspheming already; all the comforts of home, eh?”

Jack heard the latch fall, and held out his arms, ready for Sparrow to come to him. He was utterly blind, and utterly happy. “Jack? Where the hell are you?”

A small silence, and then Jack Sparrow murmured, “Don’t make me wait, Jack. Take off your clothes.”

A greedy warmth somersaulted lazily in Jack’s belly at the words. At the tone; at the thought. “I will if you will.”

“Oh, I will.”

The sound of rustling cloth, the thump of discarded boots, the dull clank of weaponry deposited on wood; Jack stood bare and erect and sightless, grinning like a Bedlamite into the chilly dark. And then there came a gentle touch, fingertips running across Jack’s abdomen.

“S’pose you like this, eh, Jack?” murmured Sparrow, close enough that Jack could feel his heat, and yet not nearly as close as Jack’d choose to have him.

“Er: _yes_.”

“The dark, I mean. And in our own cabin. All secret, like. No chance of anyone sneaking a glimpse of you and your dreadful vice.”

“I’ve had such trouble deciding how to introduce you to people, but that’s perfect: _Sir, Madam, this is Jack Sparrow, my Dreadful Vice._ ”

The fingers made their way up Jack’s chest, and he fought a terrible internal battle over whether it would be more delicious to let them continue to taunt and tease, or to clutch their owner, and all his other glorious appendages, to him. They circled a nipple, delicately, and Jack shivered in anticipation. He reached out and found the warm mess of Sparrow’s hair; dug his fingers in deep and pulled Jack Sparrow closer, closer, till there was no more than an inch between them, and each man’s yard was pressing—a single, delicious point of contact—onto the other’s belly.

“Anyway,” said Jack, because he knew it would make Sparrow happy, “there’s no secret on this ship, ‘bout how things are between us. Every man here knows what you are to me, Jack Sparrow, and I’m not ‘shamed of that.”

“Every man here, perhaps; and yet, Jack, yet… you’ve spent the last two weeks disavowing me, have you not?”

“Hello, hanging offence? Besides which, I’d like to point out that I’ve not only beaten the crap out of the man who disapproved of it—twice—but arranged his arrest and probable execution.”

“Pfft,” said Sparrow, his breath puffing against Jack’s cheek; and though Jack was very keen to stop talking and start fucking, he was also very keen on the direction he (correctly) anticipated that the conversation was taking, viz.:

“Nevison only found out by accident. And Mistress Eliza’s not bringing down the law on him to defend your love-life, Mr Shaftoe, about which she remains blissfully ignorant.”

There. Perfect. “Oh no,” said Jack airily. “I told _her_ all about it.”

A tiny, still moment, and when Sparrow spoke, Jack could hear the smile in his voice. “You did?”

“Mmm. She took it well. Probably better than Bob did, actually.”

“Bob? You… _Bob?_ ”

“Of course,” said Jack, slathering the words in a good helping of utterly hypocritical indignation. “He has to get used to it, after all.”

Sparrow let out a bark of delighted laughter, and then murmured, “Ah… but did you tell him _before_ his rescue efforts, or _after_?”

Jack snorted. “What sort of idiot d’you take me for, Sparrow?” he demanded, and pulled his love the last half-inch towards himself.

Sparrow’s strong arms wound round, and his belly tensed with amusement against Jack’s as their mouths met, blindly in the dark, and opened with the sweet, hot, familiar greed that was Jack’s home and heaven.

*

He’d told all, confessed it to his nearest and dearest; and in doing so, proved once and for all that Jack’d won. Jack Shaftoe’s heart, Jack Shaftoe’s glorious body, were his and only his, and the victory of it pounded fiercely through him. A wild energy filled him, a bouncing delight that demanded release, through sound or whirling motion or—or—or _something_ , and that something, oh yes, would definitely involve Shaftoe.

Enough teasing, enough delicacy, enough talk. They were home, and back, and safe, and Jack needed to claim it all again as his. He kissed Shaftoe with a deep, forceful certainty, and ground against him; and the quiver in Shaftoe’s bones, the hitch in his breath, said that he knew exactly what it was that he’d told Jack without so many words. Knew what promise his confession held, buried in that short and simple _Of course_.

“Bed,” said Shaftoe indistinctly into Jack’s mouth, and Jack grunted agreement; he walked Shaftoe over to it, refusing to give up one inch, one moment of skin contact. It didn’t matter how cold the cabin was, not when he had the scorching heat of Jack Shaftoe pressed up against him, all hard chest and tense stomach and—oh, best of all—that solid and eager yard jabbing into his belly.

They tumbled onto the bed, and Jack pulled a blanket over them, and kissed, and kissed, and kissed, and murmured sounds of need and wanting that were echoed back to him in low growls and happy moans. He briefly released Shaftoe’s mouth, so that he could pay attention to his neck, and to the muscular dips and hollows of his shoulders; he tilted his hips back to make room for his hand on Shaftoe’s cock, and Shaftoe groaned delightedly.

“Ah, Jack, Jack… do that again. More. Harder.” He was wriggling beneath Jack already, arching and eager and everything that Jack’d once hoped and prayed he’d be. Every time they were here, like this, Jack’s head was filled with images of the past, of Shaftoe’s resistance and uncertainties, of his denials and refusals; and images of, oh yes, every single time his armour cracked and his ardour leaked through. Every bitten lip and growled demand. Every moment of wide blue eyes and grabbing hands. The most fabulous treasure Jack’d ever sought, and now it was his, all his, beneath him. He was dizzy with need and greed; he scrambled down under the blanket and without a moment’s tease, took Jack Shaftoe’s cock deep in his mouth, and Shaftoe let out a sound that was almost enough to push Jack over the edge, all on its own.

Jack Sparrow was skilled at this. Skilled, and experienced, and cunning. He knew how to take his time; knew how to use his tongue and hands and flesh to slowly bring another through each delicious drawn-out moment of pleasure. But here and now, with Shaftoe’s hands tangled in his hair, and his mouth full of this wonderful pulsing flesh and its wetly silky skin, with the warm smells and sounds of their desires all around and through him, Jack lost all his skill, all his control. He was nothing but shaky, shuddering want.

He gave a last long suck, and then clambered on top of Shaftoe, and kissed him, hard and wet and messy.

“What’s your pleasure?” muttered Shaftoe, and Jack could only gasp and laugh and shake his head.

“I don’t know what I want, Jack. I want it all. Everything. I want you deep and hard in me, I want to be buried in your mouth, I want to fuck you and fuck you and fuck you, I want to climb inside you, I want to suck you and bite you and kiss you and I want it all, right now and always and ever.”

And for answer, Shaftoe pulled Jack down into a biting kiss, and spread his thighs, bringing his knees up and tilting his hips and splaying his hot strong fingers over Jack’s arse. “You sh’ll have it all,” he promised. “Everything.”

“Everything?” Jack murmured, breathed, his lips just touching Shaftoe’s, moist and hotly swollen from their kisses, their hearts hammering against one another.

“Everything,” said Jack Shaftoe; and he was. The horizon, made flesh and held in Jack’s arms.

 

_fin_

Thank you, everyone who's come along for the ride -- you guys are the best!   



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